Stay with Me, Inspiration!

by FerociousCreation


Terrible Beauty

A plush heart pillow pressed against my muzzle while I rested on my bed in silence. The door was closed, sealing off my family from my beaten demeanor. I didn't want to move even though the room was extremely stuffy. I was intentionally trying to literally warm up what little inspiration I had but only ended up with beads of sweat on my neck.

Both of my wings fanned out to send a breeze of warm air onto my back in an attempt to cool down. Uneasy with broken emotions, I paced about my room, pondering about everypony’s poems presented during criticism. They all had an identity. They all had character. And above all, they had meaning.

And what about mine? It was- no, ALL of my poems were possible lyrics for songs without words. But why should my words taint what inspires me? It shouldn’t.

I flipped my sattlebag open and snatched my notebook. Each turn of the page was fuel for my angry pyre. My own ugly creations in black were supposed to be angelic personifications of musical inspiration. Instead, each poem was riddled with criticism and bitter remarks. I reached pages that had nothing written on them, but I still kept turning, picking up speed until the end was reached.

The folder hit the door, leaving a dent in the hollow wood. In a dramatic spin of teenage fury, I threw myself into the bed. Was I sad or angry? No, it was frustration, a combination of the two. There was a strange sense of relief when I concluded what I was truly feeling as the tears began to fall.

My dream to write poetry was dying. I held my pillow, pretending it was the literal interpretation of my inspiration. I didn't want to let got of the pink heart. It might drift away like a lone cloud and disappear without a trace.

I roll to my side and see my poem folder through a blurry vision. The notebook exposed a blank page, baring nothing but the blue lines striped across the paper. In a desperate attempt, it called back to me, begging to be used.

With the pillow clutched against my breast, I walked over to the collection of sheets and picked it up. But what to write about? Another non-lyrical piano piece that will lead to a bitter end? No. If there was one string of consistency that the critiques showed me, it was how my writing explained what was happening. I needed a different approach.

I pulled out a pen from my sattlebag but left my Peach Mini in the pocket. If music was the true poison to my poetry, then leaving it behind for once may prove to be useful.

Back on the bed, I stared down at my offered blank piece of paper. The heart pillow was bunched against my chest, comfortably elevating my back. I was prepped for another session of writing. And yet, I didn't know where to start.

Once more, the inspiration of writing anything down began to deflate. I had already exhausted my tear ducts but I would have started to sob again if I had the reserves.

Don't leave me, inspiration. I need you.

I blinked and was shocked to see those words written down. What possessed me to scribble those two sentences on the paper, I didn't know. Part of me believed I was part unicorn after all and had a subconscious ready to take over when I was in desperate need.

A pang of worry shot through my body. I still didn't know what prompted me to write, but I didn't want it to go away. I feared what took control was nothing more than me writing down what I was thinking.

Be a part of me, inspiration. There is no need for separation.

Consciously, I wrote those two sentences on my own free will. And out of pure coincidence, I ended up rhyming the last two words. A flow of words that ended with the letters “-ation” entered my brain.

Creation. Celibration. Condemnation. Aspiration. Realization.

I was enjoying the little word hunt as I continued to fill in every space on the paper; there was no need to write in between the lines. It was so enjoyable, I went downstairs and grabbed the dictionary to get more words. Never in my life did I think I would use such a thick book.

Relation. Contemplation. Relaxation. Temptation. Another word gross stallions would think about…

After I wrote down the last word, “aviation,” my hoof came to a halt. As much as I was enjoying the exploration of rhyming words, there needed to be a reason for my sudden flurry of -ations. Retracing my steps, I returned to my first few phrases.

Don't leave me, inspiration. I need you.

Be a part of me, inspiration. There is no need for separation.

Oh, how I needed inspiration. The urge to write lovely literature ached my insides. But the distraction of a possible failure prevented any work to be resumed, deflating what was being craved. My breathing began to accelerate, chest expanding and retracting. Up and down. The struggle of inspiration and demotivation pushing and pulling. And I knew the battle was going to end in bitter defeat.

I was suddenly inspired to write, but not in the way I wanted to be. But I was still afloat. Might as well write something while there is still life in my hobby.

***

Hunger grumbled in my belly. Not for inspiration, but from actual lack of food. But leaving my room was not on my agenda. No, my poem needed attention. In all its glory, my final draft was sprawled out on the bed. I still clutched my plush heart while I paced around my room with glee. A field of white paper balls randomly spotted my floor, a few being kicked around as I walked. Never in my life would I have thought that writing a sad poem would make me feel… good! Like, really good in fact! My fear of fleeting inspiration created something wonderful. If there would be an appropriate oxymoron to be used, it would be terrible beauty.

It did pain me to have to look at my past critiques. But I had to observe what errors I have made before in order to avoid them. And the work paid off.

My bangs did my eyes justice and didn’t block out the finished poem. Though, to my honest opinion, it was more like song lyrics to me than traditional poetry. I shrug off the thought, knowing how Feather Wand writes his pieces. He was also the direct inspiration for the style I went with.

But there was something missing to my creation: music notes. Mr. Aileron’s instructions for Friday was to act out how a poem makes the poet behave. If this poem was the last breath of my inspiration, then I wanted to go out with a bang. I grabbed my notebook with my wing and hold it in a tight grasp of feathers. It was time to get serious. The world was going to hear me cry and it, in turn, would weep.

***

Slow gulps of the water fountain's cold liquid soothed my throat, a reward for myself once choir was concluded for the day. Everypony crowded around the door, waiting for the bell to signal that the race to the cafeteria was on. Waiting in line for lunch was never something I wanted to do, but a sacrifice had to be made.

In the small cramped space, I called the band classroom, I sought out Feather Wand in hopes to slip him my weekend’s creation in secret. For two full days, I spent every waking moment focused on my poem. Too bad I had to wake up early in the morning to complete my weekend homework. But my procrastination was worth it. I had my poem tweaked to the point where I couldn’t find any errors and my first music sheet I’ve ever written complimented each word.

I knew criticism was the last thing I wanted to hear, but if my poem- no, it was a song. If my song was to be at the caliber I wanted it to be at, Feather was the only pony who could aid me. Thankfully, he was at near the back of the classroom speaking to our instructor. I chose to be idle and lean against the wall but didn’t look his way until Feather was finished.

“Hey, Feather,” I said as he approached.

My inspiration came to a stop to notice me. “Hello, Songbird,” he nodded. Not trying to be subtle, Feather quickly ducked to try and catch my iris, but my reaction was too quick and I turned away. Why he was so obsessed to look me in the eye, I didn’t know. Giving up, Feather made for the door. But he was not able to react to my quick interception.

My cheeks flushed as my rash behavior was getting the best of me. “C-can you help me with a song?” I confessed. “I really want to know if it is good in its current state.”

“Ah,” he beamed. “Finally seeking somepony to help you with-” Feather’s smile deflated and his brow rose. “Wait… did you say ‘song?’”

My head sagged, embarrassed I had the pegasus’ undivided attention. “Yes, I did.” Through my bangs, I looked around to see if anypony was attempting to eavesdrop on Feather and I. “But can we go somewhere private to discuss it?”

“I will.” My thrilled body almost jumped into the ceiling but I had my figurative stone slabs attached to my hooves. For once, they discouraged me from doing something obscure and awkward. “On one condition,” Feather spoke, his tone much lower than I would have liked.

“What might that be?” I asked, wondering what devil’s ransom I would have to pay.

The warm smile from earlier returned. “Let me see your eyes.”

As flattered as I was, I took no hesitation to lift my drooping bangs. “Deal,” I winked as an added bonus.

***

Feather and I took refuge on a high cloud that overlooked Cloudsdale High School. I was normally accustomed to sitting with mares when I eat lunch, so being really close to a stallion I admire made me chew my food to a watery pulp. What made the airborne eating session so much more nerve-wracking was because Feather was reading and humming the song I wrote. On the occasion, the stallion would take a bite out of his hayburger before resuming. However, Feather’s eyes never faltered. A genius was at work and all I could do was await feedback. I finally swallowed the third bite before opening my mouth to tear off another piece of carrot and cheese sandwich.

A lump of food rolled down Feather’s throat, pausing his creative mumbling. He looked at me, trying to look through my bangs. I did a preemptive turn of the head and applauded myself when I successfully avoided meeting his eyes. What was so great about my eyes? My poem needed attention, not me.

My fourth bite didn't linger for much longer. The long silence was bothering me to no end. Patience was being evasive. “How was it?”

A smile like never before burst forth from Feather’s mouth. “It was amazing!”

A high-pitch squeal escaped me and my face felt warm. “Really!?”

“Yes!” Feather pointed to the small remainder of his sandwich. “Best hayburger I've ever eaten!” Since he was so eager to see my eyes, I lifted my bangs. Little did Feather know or expect, he was met with a disapproved and irritated stare. That straightened up his attitude. “Sorry, I was just messing around.” Just because Feather was somepony who inspired me, I was not amused to have my emotions jostled by anypony. My cheeks puffed out to express my irritation even further.

Unable to resume our unofficial staring contest, Feather looked back to my poem- song. It was hard to call it that, considering how much poetry I have actually written. I settled my hoof back on the cloud, digging into the platform and awaited Feather’s feedback.

“It's great.” The sudden answer from Feather almost didn't register in my brain. I wondered where his enthusiasm went. The azurite-blue stallion was so eager to tell me his lunch was great. Maybe the hayburger was more exciting than my poem. Feather’s compliment wasn't enough to get me to smile as I thought that I was overcome by a sandwich. But the electrifying touch of his hoof on mine made my cheeks twitch upwards a little. “It was great,” he reassured.

Playing his teasing game, I asked Feather, “On a scale of one to a tasty hayburger, how great was it?”

It was free game the moment I joined in on poking fun on Feather. “I think it is… a Number 6.” A six?! Why such a low number…? My ears fell back and hid just like my eyes. “Hey, a number six is much better than a simple hayburger,” Feather smiled, his hoof never moving from mine. “It contains a hay burger with grilled onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and ranch dressing. With a side of a small cola and fries.”

My eyes hone in on Feather’s sandwich in his hooves. I sat with pride as I had overcome the tasty food with delectable words. But that only left me to ask him about the details. So I did. “What did you like about my song?”

Feather pressed my poem close to his chest. “It is extremely relatable. The struggle of being inspired is something I always worry about. And you hit every note perfectly.”

I balled my hoof in a triumphant squeeze. “I never thought my song would be so perfect.” Feather bit his lip, a sign there was a flaw in my creation.

“Now don't get me wrong,” Feather began, holding his hoof up to protect himself from my frown, “the poem was superb!” I nodded but held any input I wanted to make deep inside me. “The only thing is… well…”

It was obvious Feather wasn't in any position to want to hurt my feelings. So I did the same thing that got him to understand the situation he was in: lift my bangs. “Tell me,” I said with a little flutter in my eyes.

My half-unicorn powers captivated Feather to tell the truth. “The musical notes need some work. A lot of work.” Even though the criticism was a good punch to the stomach, I knew my skill in composing music was close to none. “Good effort,” Feather added.

“Thank you for reading it,” I choked, but I was the bigger mare over my sensitive emotions and didn't let them overwhelm me. To combat them, I confessed to Feather, “It makes me happy that the one who inspires me liked something I made.” The urge to cry was gone. However, a wave of nervousness crashed over me like… a wave of water… symbolizing my nervousness. No… I needed a better analogy. I felt like I had just confessed an overwhelming crush to the stallion of my dreams. Yes, that worked much better.

Through his thick blue coat, I could see flush in his cheeks. “I-I inspire you…?”

“Of course you do!” I exclaimed, trying to shake off his embarrassed expression. It confused me why he was taken so far back by my confession. The inspired shouldn’t fluster the inspiring. It just doesn’t work that way! “Your skill is like… like…” Perhaps improvising figurative language aloud needed work. So I resorted to a shorter compliment. “You do so many things at once, Feather. You can… write poetry and make musical pieces out of them. Not only that, you sing and play the piano.” None of my words seemed to remove Feather’s dumbstruck expression. Rather, I made it worse! The stallion’s redness spread throughout his face and I worried it may become a permanent stain. I scooted close to him and grabbed his forearm. Feather lost his grip on the hayburger. It fell apart as gravity claimed it. In control of his limb, I used his hoof to push my mane up. We were caught in a magnificent stare, both shocked at who was before us. I was hoping for a change in his expression, but it never changed; except for the moving blush.

“Why are you looking at me like that!” I demanded, my grip on Feather’s arm trying to squeeze out an answer. A hard pounding in my chest rippled throughout my body. I didn’t know how long it was behaving that way, but I finally noticed it.

Feather dipped his head as if to try and block out both eyes with his short turquoise mane. “Because you inspire me…” he finally answered. My body went limp and I fell off the cloud.