I know that I have talked a lot about my source of inspiration, especially as a writer and human being. I take pleasure in being a poet because there is inspiration all around me every day. I cannot name a specific thing that I find as my source of inspiration. It could be a situation I have been in or just being an observer of what goes on around me. I just love sharing my thoughts and feelings in every piece that I write. Yes, I do consider myself an artist because I create pictures. I think this quote explains it in the best way. “Art has the power to transform, to illuminate, inspire and motivate.” If I can do at least one of those things with my art then my job is complete. Poetry is not necessarily what we say, but a lot of the time it is how we say it. That is what the next quote by Mahmoud Darwish says. He says the following. “The importance of poetry is not measured, finally, by what the poet says but how he says it.” I can go on and on about inspiration, but I will leave my readers with the following. Being an artist, especially a poet is all about sharing memories, sharing feelings and most importantly sharing thoughts. I hope that everyone enjoys the following poem!! I am going to let this poem speak for itself.
Sharing Memories
The world awaits me, waiting for me to notice
The small ripples in the creek, the tallness of
A mountain or when a couple embraces love.
The world’s beauty is captured through a lotus
Flower that opens its petals for the first time in
Spring and blooms in summer. The steady click
Of a camera; the mental memory. Never be sick
Of the mundane things like raindrops or dry skin
While standing in the middle of a desert because
Being a poet means sharing those moments, big
And small like a heartbreak breaking me like twig,
My heart in half as I clean up the mess. The cause
For concern as I try to navigate through the rough
Terrains of the road ahead and the shadows that try
To entice me. I become observant of tears people cry
As they pretend to be okay and continue to be tough
For the rest of the world on standby. But no one sees
Me watching and observing from the hidden corner
Like a faithful bird watcher. A sorrowful mourner
Who lost love, but it remains in new grown trees,
Roots and flowers. A poet and writer with my pen
Who only wants to write the truth, even if it means
I bring sorrow to an empty table. The truth redeems
Matters of the heart. Everything is released again.
