Ink flows on my papers in what I dare not

Call poems nor works of art; I write

And I hide my lines from public eyes.


I'd set fire to the words and dispel my fears,

But my heart can't bear the loss of my creations.


Catullus was my Mentor and Sappho nurtured me.

I visited the souls of many an artist; from poets

To painters and composers, their music fed my mind.


The Philosophy of Sound – child of Pythagoras,

fostered by Plato and then Nietzsche – shaped my psyche.


Yet in this world of insane expectations,

I am just another Virgil writing the Aeneid:

The eyes of my Grand Hero scrutinize my scribbles.


My pathetic attempts at emulating Their glory

End up in a growing pile of discarded shreds.


If only Apollo could soothe my pain, chanting

Lyrics to my deaf ears, guiding my fingers

Along an opus of exceptional grandeur.


Yet my Dionysian spirit would never allow

Placid words to abate its fervid impetus.


And it's tragedy taking place on my corneas,

Whether of Elissar or Ophelia, I thirst for

The passion sealed in Their ageless verses.


The more I read from them, the stronger the urge

To reach the same level of undying eminence.


Hence, alone, in the safe darkness of my scriptorium

I lay my pen onto blank sheets and I give birth,

To pulsing thoughts matching my weak heart.


Still, it's suffocating, dirty smoke into my lungs;

I feel crushed under the weight of comparison.