If I were only to write,
Something nonsensical,
Filled up with passion
And half-baked metaphor,
If only, I would give up
My perfectionism
And logical poetic applications.
Why must I overthink?
Why must I think at all
About something
That is so simply,
Meant to be felt?

Poetry is not for the weak minds,
For with every verse written,
You must go to the depths of your soul
And ask your inner demons to sing.

You must march down to that haunted choir,
And face every weight that burdens you.
Every single tear and cry of misery,
Will be woven deep beneath the lines.

Upon arrival the devils will not sing, they'll scream.
And the howls reflect every cut and scar,
All the pain you've long since buried,
Only your defiance, will tame this grief.

And you will fail.
But your failure and its dissonance, will create beauty.

Poetry is not for the weak minds,
For you burn up in every verse written,
Yet determined you stand, turning your blood to ink,
And the screams of pain, into an echo of harmony.

Your skin; your blood,
The tangles of your life,
Are simply, the most precious,
Of all that is heavenly.

The suns of distant worlds,
Are scattered across you,
And found in your bruises,
Freckles and scars a-many.

There’s a great universe,
Written out on your skin,
And it maps the pathway,
Of your true celestial body.

Let me see through your eclipse,
So I can read the constellations,
Like the life lines on your hands,
And finally see all the stars,

That you love to hide in shadow.