Why I Picked Up the Pen

When I picked up the pen, I thought, " I want to convey a message, a message of the human heart in a language that is beautiful and artistic. I want to touch the soul of all humanity and force themselves to look within their heart and to understand their soul."

Dear, what is a dream but a reflection,
A glass mirror of opportunity
Shining bright like diamonds amongst the sun?
If but to gaze into the other side,
Another world beyond reality,
To relish in thoughts far beyond my grasp;
I would risk my very heart and soul, yet
I know too well that dreams are only dreams.
An Eden created for ones like me:
Dark, brooding, sullied with many countless lies,
Broken dreams, promises long forgotten
By a world that never cared;I say
That my dream is but to write all my thoughts
So that the world can understand the soul,
The essence of the human existence.
"This is the thing that I was born to do."
My words breathe forth the life in souless beings
To look beyond this shallow, petty life,
And look within and find one's inner self.
I am a writer of the human heart,
A vagabond you either love or hate.
Your loving muse, IceDragonOfPluto.

From the very beginning of life, my earliest days, I was always a pensive, brooding individual. I could spend hours by myself thinking and pondering life. I never felt as if I belonged in society. I felt like an outcast. Imagine yourself on an island. You are a castaway, lost in a world you neither understand nor care to. No one ever cared to make me feel welcome. My only escape from this world was by picking up the pen and writing how I felt. I was very dismayed when I saw just how selfish and cruel human nature was. I was at the expense of many puns, etc.

"Neglected"

Cast out, neglected, I am but a fool
you neither wish to save or understand.
If I am but a pawn, a simple tool,
then God, please crush me with your mighty hand.
Soulless, I am nothing: an empty shell,
I can never redeem myself to you.
Instead, I am cast in the flames of hell:
this life, this darkness, away from your view.
Yet hope of redemption through pen, alone,
is the only means to escape this fate
that curses this man’s lonesome, bitter soul
when all of this cruel world decides to hate
me, a simple servant whose words mean more
than life itself. It is what I live for.

It soon became relevant to me that my pen was the only friend I would ever have. I have lived in the southern region of the U.S. my entire life. My family and region believes that poetry is a waste of time. If you’re not out in the field farming or doing a trade, then you are considered lazy and an idealistic dreamer. My mood and mindset is not intended for a trade nor for field. I do enjoy being out in nature, but to do something so meaningless and unmentally challenging seems, to me, a waste of time. In school, I reveled in reading classic poetry or plays. While other boys looked up to people like Batman, Superman, etc., my heroes were and still are: William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe, Samuel Daniel, Andrew Marvell, John Milton, John Donne, William Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, John Keats, Percy Shelley, Lord Byron, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Robert Browning, Edgar Allan Poe, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Emily Dickenson, etc.

My writing spurned off and on all through my life. It was fun, during 5th grade, to write little haikus or quatrains for class. Our school didn’t focus on literature like it should, but it focused more on literature than we do today. I was never much for math, but science (astrology, astronomy, etc.) interested me (you can read poems of mine dealing with Pluto, etc.). I was never really encouraged to write. I was supplied with many books, though. The only person who helped me with my own poetry was my father. He was a musician and a poet/songwriter, himself who played in a local band. I only had 3 years to know him. We had a tumultuous relationship. We fought very often, when he was around, and we had little time to become father and son. Instead, we were more like friends. He was taken from me when I was 15 years old. He committed suicide in my back yard. It was very devastating. I wrote some off and on after he died.

It wasn’t until I entered college that my writing would take off to new heights. When learning what the different terms of poetic language (Sonnet, sestina, elegy, ode, epic, etc) and how they were supposed to be done, my mind was overwhelmed with words that sprung out of my soul. I had previously written free-verse that, at the time, seemed ok. However, I wanted to do something different. I realized that most people write in free verse b/c it is easy to do. I wanted to return to writing in a classic styled poetry. I wanted to convey what I was feeling through an artistic expression like William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe, etc. Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love,” inspired many pieces that revolved around quatrains. I had previously broken up with a longtime girlfriend of mine, so it was easy to spit these poems out. After reading plays and poetry in blank verse, I found a new way to express emotion through powerful speeches and effects in my poetry. I find blank verse very powerful and enjoyable. My most influential style, as many can see, is the sonnet. I love the form more than anything. So I ask you, who better to learn the sonnet style from than the master: William Shakespeare? His 154 sonnet sequence is superb above all else, in my opinion. Sonnets: 12,18,19, 30, 40, 55, 60, 64, 80, 99, 116,119, 126, 127, 130, 132, 135, 136, 138, 141, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151 and 152 inspired me the most. I have been working on a collection of over 120 sonnets called, “A Burning Heart.” It reveals my inner feelings and emotions about love. And to let everyone know, there is an “inspiration” behind it; multiple actually, but there was one that made it take off, at first. You will see what I’m talking about when I share them all with you.

I have started my hand at long narrative pieces, i.e. “The Fairy and the Shepherd.” I guess I am following in Marlowe and Shakespeare’s footsteps by doing an Ovidian progression. I have started through amatory poetry (free-verse, quatrains), to more sophisticated lines (Sonnets and blank verse), to my plays I will work on, and then (and somewhat currently) to long narrative epyllions (“The Fairy and the Shepherd”). I hope to keep you all on your toes and keep you reading.

Love and Peace,
IceDragonOfPluto