What will your verse be?

As the rain consumed us all this weekend, I allowed myself to give in to those rainy-day desires: curling up on the couch in sweatpants with my journal, a cozy blanket, some grapes (maybe not related to the rainy weather, but hey, I'm just trying to paint the picture), and the ever reliable Netflix. I ended up watching a movie that has long been on my list: Dead Poets Society. 

"The powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

I've been struggling to write a new blog post for the past week now. After being absolutely floored by the amount of kind-hearted, encouraging, and loving responses you all so generously gave following my last post, I (very contrarily) became more worried about my next one. I've spent hours reading through poems from the past year and month and week, spent far too much time critiquing, editing, and re-thinking, and ultimately have been paralyzed by the fact that nothing seemed "good enough." 

How sad is that? How awful is it that we've been conditioned to fear our creative output's value based on others' evaluations? How terrible is it that too many of us are silenced by uncertainty in our ability to speak confidently, or make our voices heard, or be worthy of an audience?

As the incredible Robin Williams emphatically proclaimed (doodled above) in Dead Poets Society, 

"You must strive to find your own voice 

because the longer you wait to begin, 

the less likely you are going to find it at all." 

Therefore, this post will share a poem that I wrote spontaneously upon finishing the movie. I had turned the lights off and closed my eyes to sleep, but found my head full of thoughts and words. So, in the notepad of my phone, I wrote a 15-minute poem to try to convey my renewed appreciation for our freedom to create, to use our voices, and to have our own unique and limitless minds to explore each day, for as long as we live. Isn't it a wonder, too, that these thoughts might live on and be shared with those who are born past the boundaries of our lifespans?   

Here is that poem in its untouched, unedited, and imperfect form. But really, if you think about it, here is that poem in its truest form. 

As always, please read with kindness. 

Let us revel- as at the sky

            a child may dwell upon the stars-

in what vast expanse of the mind

            holds home to no limitations- no bar

whose ultimate height requires a stop,

nor path forbidden, nor door kept locked.

That we may wander in infinite creation-

            free of trespassing's looming worry-

should be each day a revelation

            of ponderings till the time we’re buried;

and yet, undying in intellect, soar

vicariously through our chimerical lore.

Self-perpetuated and unsurpassed,

            from age to age so grows the tree

whose branches hold, though long we’ve passed,

            the whims of us who dared to dream-

hanging, waiting beneath the sky,

preserved though far below we lie,

            whispering Pick us to incorrupt child.