Arbit creativity

So as I had mentioned in some earlier post, I have taken a course which has writing of an autobiography as a part of the evaluation parameter. From the past many days I am thinking of how to start the autobiography and was hitting the writers block again and again. Yesterday night, I decided I need to start on it, sat in front of my comp with a new word doc open and stared at it for more than half an hour, but just didn't know where to start from.

Frustrated, I switched off the light and hit the bed, hoping for some creativity to strike me. After rolling around for half an hour, creativity did strike me, though not in the way i intended. All i could write at 4:30 am is this poem. Though it doesn't rhyme and could be called no more than a collection of words, let alone a poem, I would like to call it a poem. Considering that I usually don't write poems or anything that rhyme, I do believe that I am entitled to think so.

So this is what my sleepless brain could conjure in the name of creativity.

As she sat in her royal chair

The princess looked contented

Down in the ground stood many

Her hand it is they contended.

Many were there in the battle ground

All the heirs to some well known crown

But they line up against each other

To win the hand of the princess grown

All were there to win the same thing

It was the princess’ hand

But each had a reason of their own

Known only to their hand

Some wanted the kingdom

To which the princess was the heir

Some loved her beautiful face

Some loved her lovely hair

There I stood on the ground

As a contender in the ring

All the contenders other

Were sons of noble king

As I stood in the corner

Waiting the battle to start

I stole a glance at the princess

The queen of my heart

No one believed in me

I knew it deep in my heart

Not even my sweet princess

The ruler of my heart

I know I don’t have the valour

With which the princes are born

I know I wasn’t even a prince

I was a commoner born

But still I stood in the ground

To fight my battle last

Just to prove my love

I will fight till the last

I know I stand no chance

Before the noble kings

But still I fight this battle

Armed with my love for thee

A beautiful marriage it was

A splendorous ritual

Witness it my body did

Separated from its soul

-Stier

PS: I think i will put this into my autobiography. Though in which section is still a big question mark even to me.

PPS: Please excuse the grammar. Pretty poor in it.

PPPS: Last of the Ps and Ss, I promise... Any suggestions for the title of the poem is welcome