It was the sixth of August—a lifetime ago,
    Cashing in on a promise that we swore,
“I think I’m a masochist,” I crowed.
    “I told myself over and over, Nevermore!”
But I found myself dutifully at my desk,
    A writer, turned wordsmith whore.

We were prompted to address,
    Three cards drawn from their drawer,
To write a poem for a battle, a competition
    A task I tried not to abhor.
Peer-reviewed, under other writer’s dition,
    A challenge, I knew not what was in store.

In the blackness of the room and my head,
    Cursing this promise that I swore,
My mind spun deliriously out of control,
    Attacking the keyboard like soldiers at war,
A voice came to me from out of the dark,
    When I was at my darkest, ready to deplore,
Bemoaning my failings and obvious decline,
    With a start, I threw myself to the floor.

My hands raised to Heaven, locked in prayer,
    With sweat falling out of every pore
I shrieked, “Let me know who is there!” Not knowing,
    If it be angel or demon or creature of lore,
And the voice returned, shivering bone,
    Simply asked, “Is this what you are made for?”

But my mind stilled in the dark of the night,
    Remembering the promise I swore—
    Remembering the burden all writers bore—
To put pen to paper—cast out darkness for light—
    Pushing through the gloom, evermore,
Keeping demons at bay, until the story is told,
    It is our existence, our creed, our lion’s roar.

With story submitted, I feel better befitted,
    To call myself a writer once more,
Knowledge was gained, death was abstained,
    And my spirit is once again restored,
But I know just ahead, stories will be read,
    And anxiety—my companion—will be fed,
    Giving judgments based on a promise we swore,
    And once again I will say, “Nevermore!”

Photo by Kevin Mueller on Unsplash

Based on Edgar Allan Poe’s ballad, “Annabel Lee”. A ballad is a type of poem or song that tells a story. It uses a simple, bouncy rhythm and is split into four-line stanzas called quatrains. More from PoetryFoundation.org.

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