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serina lewis May 2019
‘poetry is unfair
for those who’ve arrived late,
there’s no new words left out there
poetry is stressful
because how can the english language expect us to wrap our souls into just a handful?
poetry is rude
feelings have to sound pretty
though life is actually quite crude
poetry is limiting
there’s only so much paper, lead, and ink
and there’s never been enough to get across what i think
poetry is too demanding
forcing our thoughts, our dreams, and our plethora of feelings,
to make some sense
to appeal to others
to stay within the coherent fence
and poetry is competitive, a jealous ***** at that
we’re all so rushed to send our souls into combat
because the last thing we’d want is to be deemed a copycat,
it seems to me that we all crave is to be deemed something or someone, as long as it’s “unique”
poetry is confusing
because in all reality, each soul has of languages its own variety,
and value to society
it matters how we speak
but not with the languages you can learn from a dictionary
it’s the ones deep inside us, that you may not be hearing
that tell who we are
both pretty parts and scary
but who is poetry to expect me to know when someone is forest green, though appear seafoam?
i’m pretty spot on when it comes to my colors
i’m still scared so it’s rare that i voice them to others
because poetry is contradictory
for example, i know i’m not the only one in the world who’s got colors in their head, chaotically swirled, or at least that’s what i hope
but whether or not there’s someone wandering near,
feeling lilac tunes passing also through their ears,
their poems to mine could be completely opposite
to me, yellow’s eminent
but to them, possibly irrelevant
and it’s so **** frustrating
because we can’t all be right, can we?
society picks their favorites
and the rest of us are negated, painfully invalidated’
this form of art, this way of life is so unrealistic that it should fill me with strife
but it doesn’t
and there’s a reason why

because poetry is fair
be the first or the last,
the whole point is to share, we were not put here to strip others bare
use whatever there is that takes ahold of your soul,
who cares if it’s new, used, broken, or old?
it came from you, from your entity it poured
this arrangement of words, feelings, and selves
they’ve never seen this before
poetry is a release
it’s gifting to you the stitch to your seams that’s been slowly tearing, the most recent cause of your despairing
for me, when i’m writing, it stitches me up with each letter from my cup becoming a word that becomes a phrase, one step closer to the glory days
when the english language will lose it’s power
and no longer have my soul in a haze
the english language is over exaggerated
we treat it with such respect
and tell ourselves it has something of us to expect
but it’s just letters, syllables, and sounds
it has no real power over us and by that i mean
it holds  us to no real bounds
poetry is real
all it is, is what we feel
and when we feel, there are no obligations
there’s no “should” or “shouldn’t”
you don’t have to keep up some fake reputation
feelings don’t have to be pretty
and life doesn’t have to be crude
your truth is your truth
so just write, and to yourself don’t allude
poetry is limitless
because while you may run out of space on that page, and yes it’s annoying to not have a place to keep going, you’re not confined to a cage inside your notebook lines
you don’t need the pencil lead to know that there’s something going on in your head
paper is limited
but we,
our souls,
we’re infinite
poetry doesn’t ask for much
just that were true and we do it for us
“to make sense” is too generalized of a concept
being as “sense” means something entirely different to all of us
i’ve had a problem with coherency, it’s never really agreed with me
but that’s only because i’ve convinced myself that i need to convince others
and that is impossible
people will see what they see and they’ll believe whatever they think you mean when you show them your poetry
but no amount of explaining is going to give someone else your eyes
you can try all you want to appeal to the crowd
you can scream what you really mean, but it doesn’t matter how loud
they’ll take it as they need to
so you might as well just write it all for yourself
poetry is confusing
and you’re never going to fully logically understand a poem that didn’t come from your hand
but that’s not the point, never was
the point was to put most things on pause,
and listen without your ears
to be able to hear somebody else’s “because”
poetry alone does not have rules
it’s our tedious brains and overwhelming insecurities that give these common misconceptions their fuel
“unfair, stressful, rude, limiting, demanding, competitive, confusing, and contradictory”
these are all words we throw, at ourselves and the art, when we’re scared
and our self-esteem is falling apart
and we’re worried we’ve done something wrong
but in art,
when you truly identify with whatever it was you felt enough to amplify,
you can’t fail
this form of art,
this **** way of life,
this ******* paradise
is one of the best reasons that i am alive
and why i’m able to do so much more than just simply survive
i'm not hating on poetry obviously, just keep reading till the end<3
serina lewis May 2019
it doesn’t have a name
but it’s something with my brain
i can hear neon green
i can smell pale pink
or maybe it’s my soul, no science to it at all
logic just says that my senses like to mix
but they’re still unable to tell me why that when i cry, i feel the word ‘crisp’ in the corners of my eyes
and when i hurt, all i can say is i’m wearing the soul of a heavy t-shirt that’s been left in the rain, and doesn’t fit right
that’s how i describe a numb sort of pain
so they send me to doctors
they give me therapists and pills
i was given a mood stabilizer, it made my mind still
but not in the way that gives most peace, sprinkling pink in the shade of how you say ‘daisy’
they were stripping me of pigment
they weren’t stopping my pain, they were shutting off my soul
because when push comes to shove, they’re as dull as burnt up coal
and i say burnt up because just like my cup, i know that their souls had a start
they just chose to dedicate theirs to logic on charts
and for them that’s okay, i just don’t prefer eyes like paper plates grey
i love that i wake and can tell if the day is going to feel like lilac in my legs
and i feel sorry for those that have no way to know that mauve tickles their fingers and toes when their favorite song dances through their lungs in the sound of cumulus clouds
it’s not a disease, a disorder, or an artistic phase
ask logic and it’s website definition will say-
it’s when one sense stimulates another
but today is not the day i let professionals unwrite the only way that life feels bright
i will let my colors swirl and i will let my senses mingle
because till the day i die i will not give a single-
explanation of myself to them without knowing first-
that what i felt in my soul was to logic unversed

— The End —