With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.

"With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion." Thus spoke Edgar Allan Poe, a man whose life was marked by shadows yet illuminated by the fire of verse. These words are not the cool reflections of a calculating mind, but the burning confession of a soul for whom poetry was not a mere occupation, nor a tool to gain glory, but the very heartbeat of existence. A purpose may guide the hand, but a passion consumes the whole being. It is the difference between a man who writes because he must and one who writes because he cannot help but bleed his spirit onto the page.

The ancients understood this divide well. For the poet was never merely a craftsman of words but a vessel seized by the divine. When Homer sang of Achilles’ wrath and Odysseus’ long journey, it was not from duty alone but from the fire of inspiration that gripped him. A purpose can be planned, outlined, and pursued with cold precision. But a passion is a storm: it drives, it shakes, it possesses. Poe’s confession echoes this ancient truth—that true poetry is not born from calculation, but from necessity of the soul.

Consider the life of Poe himself, so riddled with grief, poverty, and despair. Death stole his loved ones, and hardship shadowed his days. Yet in the midst of such sorrow, he did not turn away from poetry; rather, it became his sanctuary, his release, his obsession. He did not write because the world demanded it, nor because he sought wealth or status—indeed, those rewards rarely came. He wrote because he must. His verses were not purposeful steps on a path to fortune; they were the cry of a heart that found in poetry its only means of survival.

History abounds with others who shared this truth. Think of Vincent van Gogh in painting—a man who did not paint with purpose to earn riches, but with passion that consumed him, even as the world mocked and ignored him. Or think of Emily Dickinson, who wrote in solitude, her poems hidden away in drawers, never meant for fame. For her too, writing was no calculated goal but a burning compulsion. Their art, like Poe’s, shows that passion creates what purpose cannot: works that touch eternity.

The lesson for us is clear: in life, do not mistake purpose for passion. A purpose may be noble, but it often serves the outer world. A passion, however, serves the inner flame, that mysterious force that makes one fully alive. To discover your passion—whether in words, music, service, or craft—is to uncover the gift that transforms labor into joy, and hardship into meaning. For passion sustains when purpose fails, and it endures when all else crumbles.

Yet take heed, for passion is also dangerous. It is a fire, and if not tended, it can consume. Poe himself was both exalted and destroyed by the intensity of his inner blaze. To live by passion requires both surrender and discipline: surrender to the inspiration that compels, and discipline to give it form without being devoured. This balance is the work of a lifetime, but it is a work worth undertaking.

Practically, this means seeking out what makes your soul burn brighter, even if it seems impractical. Ask yourself: “What do I do not because I must, but because I cannot resist?” Give that passion space in your life. Do not let the clamor of duties smother it. And if you find no passion yet, be patient and attentive, for often it lies hidden beneath the noise of survival, waiting to be rediscovered.

So remember the wisdom of Poe: poetry—and by extension, all true art and devotion—is not a purpose, but a passion. Live not only by duty, but by fire. For while purposes may fade, the passions of the soul endure beyond the grave, leaving behind a light that guides future generations. To live with passion is to live truly, deeply, and eternally.