As much as I am

in a semi-state of rapture

as I pour over your words

I am, equally, despairing.

I look to my pen and paper with dismay,

for how do I begin?

How, with ears and heart full

your unique and lovely

syllables and syntax,

of worlds created out of sheer

linguistic elegance,

do I begin to tumble thoughts

out of my foggy brain

onto my coffee-stained page?

I allow myself a moment of

utter hopelessness,

acknowledge that comparison

is a bitter thief of creative talent,

and then shake the thoughts free.

There’s only this:

(what you did once as well, surely)

pick up the pen and begin.

Begin to write—

if nothing else, these words

are distinctly, divinely mine.

Write out my heart, and write some more.

There was, perhaps,

as with all things essential

to the sustenance

of our souls,

truly never any other choice.

Relephant Read:

Oh Captain, My Captain! The Lost Art of Poetry.

Author: Keeley Milne

Editor: Renée Picard

Photo: Alan Weir/Flickr