Photo by jules a. on Unsplash

Greetings dear reader, if you are here out of your own subconscious willingness or to quench the natural flavor of curiosity seeped into your mental hearth after reading the title, I bid you a warm welcome!

Here, you shall witness and exhibit three different “levels” of poetry that I promise as part of my prowess.

Before that, a subtle foreword would be beneficial — in reality, literature works are priceless by their birthright. However, akin to the same scope as a piece of land or property being evaluated, I believe that writers and poets reserve the right to set a minimum “floor” price to their handiwork.

Likewise, I simply tag off poetic architecture under three tiers in the sense that I would produce a work of that caliber if and only if a particular client presents that monetary amount for the service of copyright ownership.

Anyways, time for your eyes to ‘hear’ and caress the superficial qualities of what a typical 50-dollar poem looks like :

Photo by Aleksandr Ledogorov on Unsplash

HOPE

Hope is a seed
Propelled by a need
Believing you’d succeed.

Hope is a treasure
Only minds can measure
But no one can truly be sure.

Hope is a tune
Controlling your dear fortune
That won’t replenish soon.

Hope is an open-air cage
Surrounded by petals of courage
That can heal far better than any sage.

Hope is a butterfly
Flapping wings tattooed by a true lie
That sooner or later, your ambition will die.

Hope is an emotive feeling
With holy aura penetrating and concealing
A sensation with satisfaction appealing.

Hope is a shadow
Of curiosity you’ll never know
Which even death cannot endow.

I’ll leave the honorary privilege of criticism and feedback unto you readers, so feel free to let your fingers do the talking.

Moving on, if someone approaches me and throws in a random title or topic to write about, they would obviously need a bit more than just 50 dollars to account for the unique novelty that I guarantee with my skills.

Thus, I usually ask for a 200-dollar compensation for merely a boost in the resourceful rhetoric “spices”. And if my clients desire to completely purchase the copyright and ownership to their name (perhaps to misuse my skills for their own personal gain by swapping me out as a ‘ghost writer’), they are obliged to submit an additional 250 USD — that makes 500 USD in total.

Wonder what a 500-dollar poem looks like? Here’s one plucked freshly off Synaesthetic Symphonies, a book on my poetry compilation :

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

A WINTRY DAY

Chilly furrows crept up my ears
As I tried to recall my summer tears,
Of times spent in eternal desirable sunlight
That the sudden cold migrated its flight,
Of trees feathered by frosty smiles,
Of flowers roasting away to the cold defiles,
Of assimilating chaos in the hearts of birds,
And of memories floating away like a pack of cards.

Fogs settled in the silent air; birds forgot how to speak,
The sun forgot how to laugh; the morning dew was meek.
The rain clouds had faded away, leaving only their fake clones
Who never shared their true gift other than the frozen stones
Which enlightened the snowy season with translucent sugary crystals
That refracted light rays toward the heralding mistrals.

Cold was cold, as cold as the day winter began,
Wrapping my toes, fingers, limbs, and neck like a cardigan.
There seemed to exist no end to the cold, only hope
That eventually will arrive a day for spring and winter to elope,
Leaving behind a fresh fruity scent of the last winter’s trace,
And a promise that a year later shall we again embrace.

Rest assured, though, no one paid for the piece featured above; I wrote it for my school yearbook. For free.

Before we head along the corridor marked with the ‘5000-dollars’-worth poem’ (which I believe is the prime attraction for this article), I would like to describe how I craft out my poems.

To be precisely honest, I myself do not understand how I write poetry. It just autonomously arrives and descends down the neural staircase from my brain to my finger muscles. As far as I can recall my past, I have been writing poems since kindergarten (although not of the superior quality of my contemporary instances).

Poems exist in several colors, shapes and races. I particularly love limericks, sonnets and freestyle poems that ‘rhyme’. Although, if requested, I confidently can create any species of poem that a client may wish for me to summon into existence.

I curate a mental library of commonly rhymed words and begin creating links for every consecutive verse, stepped with an interval of once or twice. That, alone, is not enough to “paint a poem” properly. Thus, I go guns ablaze into a blank sheet of paper — either virtual or physical — and begin meddling with the human senses and the metaphorical plane invisible to our materialistic perception.

To me, language (especially English) is a domesticated entity that forms up an extension of my creative spirit. Without it, I seem incomplete!

And now, for the final contender’s flaring finish, the first fruit from Million Dollar Poems (another poetry compilation, in progress at the time of publication of this article) foretells its fruition :

Photo by Jake Givens on Unsplash

SUNRISE

Yawning from the palaces in the sky,
Ascending from the womb of the sea,
Painting its signature golden dye
Upon the halls of air set free,
It arrives with a fresh smile,
It arrives waving at the Earth,
Riding rays of light so agile,
It heralds the news of its birth.

Time tellers dutifully display sevens,
While “Prince Sun has arrived!” yell the Heavens,
“Your Majesty, we awaited your presence.”
The youthful star waves back with benevolence.

Birds conjured chirrup harps, roosters picked up vocal violins,
In unison, they sang of the forthcoming dawn
Of the blossoming Sun’s righteous era,
From every patch of soil, sand and lawn,
Reminding all of flora and fauna,
That the pleasant promenade of light has begun!

From afar, Princess Luna slowly hid behind the astral curtains, shy,
Her silvery servants desperately followed.
Changing the colors of the celestial stage slightly made her cry,
But she knew the might of the Prince could have hers overshadowed.
On a foreign bed of azure, she sleepily faded out of view,
Leaving behind only a faint pearlescent hue.

The Sun inspected the assembly of his Peoples,
“Ah, here come the Clouds!” he spotted his contrasting disciples
Riding atop wispy winds galloping swift,
“Hmph!” snorts Cloud Nimbus, seeking to broaden their physical rift,
“We Clouds can bloat out your radiance so appraised!”
Aghast with awe, the kingdom of the Sky exploded
Into a fog of blaming and blasphemy.
By the natural orders described by Ptolemy,
Advocates of the Weather flocked towards the commotion,
“Sire, we admit apologies for the lack of locomotion,”
Judging the situation, they sincerely bowed,
“But we’re afraid the clouds have contested the roads we plowed.”
Expecting conflict and chaos, the atmosphere fell grim;
Instead, the golden prince respectfully disagreed.

“My domain is free, let all heavenly beings live their dream,”
The Sun ordered by the face of his royal decree,
“My cloud brethren may strive to defeat me, but in the end,
All life remembers who remains steadfast, on whom to depend,”
Alas, the Sun lifts his hands, exhibiting his palms of power,
“The subtle differences between us were granted by birth,
For I provide sustenance through light, you via shower,
But affirm as your own the way you interpret your worth!”

Hushed as they were, Cloud Cirrus took responsibility for their legion,
“My deepest regrets, Prince. Our elders know no self-esteem,”
And she dragged Nimbus away like luring a wild pigeon.
“May your reign be victorious; may your sister gleam!”
With that, the clouds were finally absent from the solar focal region.

“Praise be to the King of Heavens! Praise be to Him for your Blessing!”
Exclaimed all lifeforms surfaced below the Sun’s sacred gaze,
“Praise be to your Creator, ruler of Night and Day; for you, we sing!”
Reminded of the God, the Sun let loose his full form, ablaze!
Dancing through dew drops, rampaging through rain,
Dictating the darkness, purging ecological pain,
Light echoed in every shape and color,
As photons marched in waves of honor.

Participating playfully in Newton’s prism,
Motivating rainbows to climb out of their closets,
Catering to philosophers the sweetest topic of surrealism,
Diving into copycat glass and watery pockets,
The Sun left his holy mark in a state of hysterical sarcasm.
Alas, flags of the Sun’s ascension were already up;
Eyes awakened, chloroplasts held out their cup,
So the solar syrup stormed out, caressing every fan,
Directing blind plants, making skin tan,
The sun had risen — every Earthly object now greeting “Hi”.

If you believe that the poem is not worthy of being priced so high at the floor value of 5000 USD, feel free to comment what you believe would be the appropriate value.

Alas! You have hereby reached the end of this audacious article that apparently audits my arrogance on an atomic level. Just jesting! No matter how highly acclaimed or lowly insulted I am, I never wish to breath for a single ‘egoisitic minute’, either explicit or implied.

Thank you for your patience and time. If you are a poet yourself, may your next work be a masterpiece! You have my blessings. 🖐️ Go, my soldier. Conquer the chasm that separates you from your readers.