What is the limit of poetry? If the sound of water splashing triggers a memory about a day when you hurt me, and I am to write about it while you are still here next to me, laughing and breathing together, does this make you a bad person? What if the blocked memory hinders forgiveness, and to forgive, I need to channel this sad melody humming in my mind for release? Are the happy verses written not enough to redeem one lousy poem? I am being selfish, alright. I’ll drop my pen and play along—should you no longer be an inspiration?

And what if I write about my parents, good and respectable people who cherished and nurtured me into the person I am now? But humans are flawed; there is no such thing as perfect parents. And in their flaws, I found mine as well. I found pains and unquenchable expectations that shaped me—a jumbled head, a glorious mess. I sought professional listeners who prompted me to uncover the wounds of my inner child, rooted in how I was brought up. Again, I am faced with tunes, now shrieking and haunting, and they won’t stop until I knit them into words exposing the pair I love most. Is every song I sing about their perfection to me, despite their imperfections, not enough to balance a poem about a wounded inner child?

But the flaws I see in them lead me back to my own. I am my own muse, as I find myself the person I can never understand, emotions I cannot read or tame—without the help of poetry and prose no one would read anyway. I’d call them novel elucidation, but in the process, I called myself names from sinner to cannibal. I exposed myself—stupid, unforgiving, weak, vicious, narcissistic, helpless, victim-minded—a host of bad habits. Do not expose your weakness to others, they say, but what if I feel empowered as I arrange letters upon letters. To sin against oneself is a grave act, but what if I need to lament and muse so I will not commit a much graver sin against myself?

What is the limit of poetry when I hang my survival on them? Should I depart on a quest to find wisdom? Perhaps the answers lie not within but beyond the assumed borders. I have to keep going—breaking hearts, leaving trails, chasing infinite truth.