The Contest
Of course, as soon as a new poetry contest was posted I had to immediately enter. In this
contest, you had to email the sponsor to get your own, unique theme.
Off went my email; back came her reply: “Write a poem about what inspired you to write
poetry.”
She even included one of her poems as a sample of what she was looking for. A beautiful
poem indeed; relaying the story about how her Grandmother inspired her to write.
So, I tried to emulate her with my story.
I wrote a poem about my football coach who taught me real men can write poetry without
feeling emasculated. A nice poem, albeit, total fiction.
I penned a verse about my first love encouraging me to write about our romance and how
the subsequnt breakup inspired me to write about the sorrow of love lost. A passionate and
beautiful poem, although pure BS.
I rhymed the touching story about how my mother, on her deathbed, confessed that she
knew I was writing poetry by reading my secret journal for years. Her last words to me
were to follow my passion and write poems for her in heaven. Problem is, my mother is
alive and well and has never shown any interest in reading my poems.
The fact of the matter is, I cannot pinpoint a moment in time; a person; or, an experience
that inspired me to write.
Just as I need no inspiration to breathe in order to stay alive; I write poetry as a reflexive,
survival instinct.
Just as I need no inspiration to eat in order to satisfy my hunger; I write poems to placate
my yearning inside.
Just as I need no inspiration to dream when I close my eyes at night; words, rhymes and
stories fill my mind whenever I find a moment of peace in my hectic day.
Whereas, I envy those who know where their inspiration came from, I am less blessed with a
birth of inspiration and am more cursed with an innate need to write.
In my email to the sponsor, I bragged how I was up to the challenge, but, alas, she
presented me with a theme I cannot relate to.
I will continue to breathe words of poetry through my keyboard.
I will continue to nourish my hunger through prose.
And, I will continue to dream in rhyme and meter.
But, I have no story to wow you with about what motivated me to do so in the first place.
The irony in all of this? After admitting this truth about myself to a complete stranger in an
otherwise meaningless contest, I am inspired to continue to feed my curse and write poetry
forever more.
Thanks…damn you.
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