The Prismatic Self
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Written May 03, 2025, for contest by Daniel Henry Rodgers
Word count:397 words, Proposed new word: "aspira-fear" mix of fear and hope
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In the quiet arena,
I confront shadows that loom,
What pushes me to spill ink?
To create worlds?
A question reverberates—my heart’s journey,
Words flicker as flames; they ignite—
A pursuit fueled by desire,
Ambition consumes me.
As judgment lingers,
Veiled in whispers or
Soft tones of rejection—
Barely noticeable.
Ambition breathes close behind me.
A raw word: "aspira-fear"
A nameless urgency—
Colors are approved as a symphony.
While vulnerability,
A whisper drowned by applause.
While the last thing I jotted down
was to hold complacent ears ecstatic.
Why do I lay my heart before judges?
To win their gaze,
Or risk their shadowed wings?
Appreciation—an ephemeral glow,
Or a descent into a katabatic abyss,
Rejection—chilling shade hangs as fog.
I write with trembling hands.
Struggling against doubt,
to reveal my soul’s diary?
Exposed beneath the pen’s tip—
Bared and carved by its motion,
Words morph into an unvoiced contest.
A forge for truth,
Under the flame of self-examination.
Memory and desire collide as stars.
Do I dare to confront a poem in a mirror?
Not shy away from its raw honesty?
In this gentle swell,
Whisper through the void.
With eyes shut in shadow,
The pen is a sword.
Piercing silence
With words that dare to speak.
The arena beckons—
A stage for murmured dreams,
Where recognition twirls
On the brink of twilight.
Ink flows with purpose.
Yet doubts shiver beneath,
In syllables that bind.
What drives this tender heart?
To chase acclaim?
To brave the chill of rejection for art?
Caught between chaos and calm—
A restless longing stirs,
Grotesque innocence blooms—
A haunting need laid bare.
I stand,
Not a bad bard. . .
Where shadows dance,
I ponder, who am I?
Unveiled and quaking
Before judgment’s throne.
Words flow like rivers.
From an unsettled soul,
For those who taste music
While enjoying my verses
Each line is a crucible.
Truth searing under scrutiny.
A lighthouse amid the fog;
Between memory and desire,
These verses collide—
Soft tones murmuring:
Each word a fragile whisper—
I wrestle with the need.
To be understood,
To earn the unspoken applause
In dimly lit rooms.
Recognition slithers beneath my skin.
Yet deriding me when I stumble.
Why do I dance with this ghost?
Does failing echo a deeper truth?
My pen trembles—
Ambition blazes like a candle in the wind.
And there it is—a fresh ache: a soulquake.
Copyright © Sotto Poet | Year Posted 2025
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