The Night I Became A Poet
Prose-poetry on the poet’s call
This was a night when the storm of my heart refused to dull. It tossed and stirred. The flames of my inner angst failed to extinguish.
For suddenly everything I saw invoked a sense of loss. Of love. Of an eternal yearning. Yet the outside world at the same time felt so fixed yet fleeting.
How can all emotions be combined in a single instance? Be thrown into the light without any shame?
This was a night I became a poet.
The silence suddenly started to speak. A voice previously unheard arose from the abyss.
All nature’s language became manifest. I could no longer ignore the call of my soul. Now I see all my pains are now conspired and manifest as my muse.
I have no hand in this magical unraveling. My pen is now my master and my slave. Is now my weapon, and my tool.
I now have an avenue to make real my dreams.
This was the night I became a poet
The countless blessings of these incantations are strewn upon the poet’s path.
For all those called to carry this curse-filled blessing. Don’t resist your words. Don’t resist to show your pain. Don’t resist to bare your soul.
Those who will see you will see you. Those who will judge you for your madness on paper, won’t matter.
A poet’s life is a vicious sweet calling. Not to be taken lightly.
Don’t deny yourself of being a vessel for the healing of hearts. Don’t ignore being an alchemist of transformation of souls.
Own your path. Own your words. And your pain.
Let tonight be the night you become a poet
