Finding One's Muse
When I was in pre-med and med school I was a prolific poet. I used to write three or four poems in a day. I would then post them in my deviantart page and allow fellow poets to give a critique on my poetry. Some lauded my rhymes. Others would give their 5-cents worth of opinion as to how to improve my art. I would write various types of poems. When I was younger, I would used to write rhyming poems. When I started college, I tried experimenting with my poetry and started to write open poetry. I even tried haiku at some point. I would use my poetry as a ticket to an alternative world, where I play swords with words and win battles in life just by writing about them. In my poetry, I felt a rush of freedom. Call it autistic, but I found comfort in the words which can never be real. Lately though, I had a hard time writing down even a stanza. I felt dried up. My untouched deviantart page is proof of this withered soul. Somehow I felt that I lost my muse and I could no longer write down poetry. Within me there is this possessed soul wanting to escape through rhymes and lines, yet the exits are not as clear as before. I have lost my muse.
Poetry is my secret love affair gone public during my younger days. I am not a very good poet but somehow I felt that the poems I write indirectly reflect the things I harbor in my subconscious. I can be ambigious but at the some time "relate-able".
I have to admit that the mundane affairs have swallowed up the "fantasy world", that fantasy world where I can transform my hate into a bloodied angel, transform my joy into a speeding fog, or create my hero from a naked Valkyrie. I longed for my phoenix, my guardian angel whose wings burst into flames to protect me and later re-emerge from its ashes to once more accompany me into my other battles.
For the meantime I await the return of my muse. Perhaps in daydreams and even nightmares she will return, bringing back the frenzy which she has infected me like before.
So for now, I content myself with writing boring essays like this.
Poetry is my secret love affair gone public during my younger days. I am not a very good poet but somehow I felt that the poems I write indirectly reflect the things I harbor in my subconscious. I can be ambigious but at the some time "relate-able".
I have to admit that the mundane affairs have swallowed up the "fantasy world", that fantasy world where I can transform my hate into a bloodied angel, transform my joy into a speeding fog, or create my hero from a naked Valkyrie. I longed for my phoenix, my guardian angel whose wings burst into flames to protect me and later re-emerge from its ashes to once more accompany me into my other battles.
For the meantime I await the return of my muse. Perhaps in daydreams and even nightmares she will return, bringing back the frenzy which she has infected me like before.
So for now, I content myself with writing boring essays like this.
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