My sister sent me this quote to help with my inspiration. It is, of course, from Rilke.


"... Ah, poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your
life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime,
and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be
able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simply
emotions (one has emotions early enough)--they are experiences. For the sake
of a single poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must
understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which
small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think
back to streets in unknown neighbourhoods, to unexpected encounters, and to
partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is
still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a
joy and you didn't pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else--); to
childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and
difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to
mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that
rushed along overhead and went flying with all the stars,--and it is still
not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many
nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women
screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given
birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying,
must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and scattered
noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to
forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to
wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only
when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are
nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves-- only then can it
happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their
midst and goes forth from them."