That wasn't nearly as terrible as I thought it would be. Generally I assume that extraordinarily high expectations are placed upon my work, but apparently I'm the one pushing myself too far. I usually think that it needs to be extraordinary... something almost otherworldly and that blows away all the expectations anyone has ever placed on anything. I realized, though, that that's far from the truth. Even though there are certain criteria that must be met to consider a work of literature "good" or something of the sort, everyone's individual push for originality and creativity ends up working well with whatever they've written. One thing I know about art and writing alike: if you don't feel it, no one else will. The empty works that are done for pure aesthetics are probably as useful as cow manure. There's nothing more insulting to the artist that is truly engaged than someone who's spewing out cliche'd regurgitations of everyone else's work. If it's not your story, don't tell it. If you don't feel the burning need to share it, don't, nobody's going to care if you don't make it count. I don't believe in loveless art. I don't believe in the creation of something that isn't a part of you. Even if it's not real, it came from you, therefore it will always be part of the person that expressed it.
With this little critique, I lead the way to my newest work of art: a poem I've been dieing to write.
This Is Not Farewell
The days flowed smoothly into hours,
all too quickly turning into minutes.
They slipped out of the lovers’ grasps,
sliding out of their reach,
rapidly becoming treacherous s e c o n d s
anxiously running out as a reminder of
his inevitable departure.
Their hearts beat together for an i n s t a n t,
rashly ripped apart
by the announcement of the flight
that was scheduled to leave for Afghanistan
five minutes ago.
One last embrace,
one last kiss,
one last moment to accept the course of life.
A single sigh.
His back turned.
He rushed toward the glass doors.
A moment of hesitation;
he turned around.
A promise.
I’ll return...
A final glance;
her pained eyes disbelieving.
I’ll be waiting…
