Oxymoron

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.