Travails of a budding Poet – A Fiction
Towards the twilight of my University days, i had been swooning, of course along with my alter ego, mostly within the succour of his apartment, which I still remember in very fond memories, about all things Aubrey Graham, Joe Cole and Bruce Marshall Mathers and other marvels of the exciting world we had just teleported into – the world of words. Friends would occasionally meet us at it, amidst our stubbornly themeless conversations.
He, of course, had a better grasp of the scribing thingy. His sharp writing prowess and optimism had been my rudders into aerial covens of prosaic and poetic mastery. I would scrawl pieces for days, only for me to eventually delete them – they were never good enough, I believed, A notion he usually opposes.
After lots of practice, contemplation and positive Vibes. I summoned the courage to stop deleting my works. I finally decided to share a poem – Now – with a few acquaintances, to test the waters, for a start. Amateurish as it was, it was a poem I had given my best, it was good enough, I concluded. I finally decided to share it with some old classmates from college. An act I was soon to regret, thanks to the following remarks.
“Do you know how to write? are you even sure you wrote this?”
My eyes could not feast on such worded thorns, not for long, I immediately smirked them away, but I was too late, for they had waltzed, through my skin perhaps, into the crusts of my timid soul, burrowing in them, sharp hurtful holes.
I would never post poems again, maybe he was right, I was not a writer, I was never any good after all, maybe this is not my thing, maybe I don’t have what it takes, maybe this is a good time to stop, maybe I should get out of my head, maybe I should just let go, maybe I should just QUIT. all these and more, I whispered beneath the rubbles of his pelted words.
To be continued….
© Ahmad Abdulsamad, 2018. |Prose|TABP1|