Sometimes the best poetry comes unexpectedly. The random phrase jotted on a calendar page… the lines that settle into place while walking to work… the stanzas penned by she who thought she couldn’t be a poet…
The untended, vining poetry of the wilds, ignorant of rules of meter and rhyme, may be more beautiful in its own way than the most manicured garden of verses. Brambles and stones, easily overlooked, until a child stops long enough to find the wild rose and arrange a rock wall — innocent beauty that can’t compare to a formal estate.
And the two should not be compared.
So why do you judge your words against a master’s? It is this that blinds you to the valuable creation in your hands.
The reason you think you cannot write something beautiful is because your vision of beauty is too narrow. Look through the corrective lens of childhood and examine your own work as you would a tender young thing. Do not be harsh, but instead encourage and nurture, that the poet may grow and mature.
It has been said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Write a little poem and choose to behold the beauty of what you have created. Perhaps you will return later and cut this part out make room for the other part to grow, but today give yourself freedom to plant something wild and unexpected. Who knows what magnificent garden you will eventually produce if you plant a seed today?