It’s ironic that my username is DanielthePoet. I’ve never really been a poet. A self-absorbed writer of prose, perhaps. But never a poet. Back when I attempted to write poetry, I bought up books of poetry whenever possible. I read poets like Mark Strand, Pablo Neruda, Lord Byron, John Keats, W.H. Auden, and Denise Levertov.

I immediately noticed a stark contrast between this published poetry and my own. The difference was subject matter. Mine was always about me. In my defense, it WAS college and the stereotype says that the world revolves around us during that time. Still, my foray into the creative arts was more therapeutic introspection and daydreaming than poetic description.

I couldn’t bring myself to describe a flower. Or the sunset. Or the rain. Or a smiling child. Or any of a hundred other poetic possibilities. They held no interest, for I saw no beauty in them. I was intent on capturing what I needed most: to find a safe place to call home and to find performance-free love.

I will soon turn 32. On occasion, I ask myself whether I should attempt to write poetry again. But I’ve lost my muse. The angst is gone. I have found a home and a family. I am not a vagrant any longer. I know no other reason for writing poetry.