Love like the sun
Loves the earth
Ever since they met
They dance every day

The sun makes the earth
Look on the brighter side
The earth gives the sun
A reason to wake up

Love like the earth
Loves the sun
Because the earth isn’t distracted
By the stars and the moon

Who told you art was
By definition satisfying,
That it had to meet a certain standard
In order for it to be "good".
Let me tell you,
I once lived under that delusion,
Of constant anxiety,
Perpetual stress,
And worst of all: Conformity
Just as well,
I was the judge, the critic, detractor
I was beyond harsh, dastardly,
(Sad and pathetic)
Beyond light,
Beyond satisfied.
That is a senseless way to live.
Art is for the brave.
Those human enough to show their lives
With something as simple, as elaborate,
As indiscernible scribbles, monumental abstractions.
I tell you now,
Under no scenarios
Is it acceptable to see no good.
Under no light,
Should we not speak of the truth--
Of this fight,
Still not believe me?
Live under critical scrutiny,
Die (in metaphor only)
And return to life only when you know
That art is not only subjective--
But when perceived right,
Nearly
Inconceivable...

I think poetry is for the dependent
Those who can't strive a day without
Constant writing, perpetual recording, meticulous brushstrokes
On the painting of a vibrant story
Told through heavy language or light yet elegant babble

Or perhaps it's truly for the lost
Those lacerated and devastated
By life's inevitable nature,
The deviously maleficent,
Or even their own bewildered selves.

Still, I look back
At the days of unbecoming
Horrible ignorance and unprecedented knowledge
Proverbial wisdom and undiscerning youthfulness...
When life was a default wonder.

Poetry had not been my guide
Without a pillar I trudged on.
Yet! What a horrific period of life!
Oh, if only then I had the mystical treasure
Of which I certainly possess now

I think poetry is for all who appreciate it--
If not, then those who take from it,
The insecure, shameful, resentful, narcissistic, far off, logical, illogical, confounded, missing, gothic, dying, feral, lonely, creative, incapable, hopeful, and dead
It's our universal language
In times of hope or death

So many thoughts running around in my head, like unsupervised children. I think all of the things that I want to share with you, but am too afraid.

So many things that I build up in my mind about you, about us, about the cruelty of life and the love we shared, and this thing that we share now, what is it? Can it even be named? Can it be pinned down like that? No, not so far at least.

This is friendship? This relationship? Is that what this is?

What am I to you? I know what I want to be? I know what I wish you felt for me. I also know that I’m not that. I never will be again. I can live with that, as long as I do not have to live without you in my life in some capacity. I can’t do that.  

Our stolen moments together, a meal here, a walk there, a trip to the bookstore, a stolen night, wrapped up in each other, and a ghost of the passion that we used to share.

I want to write about all of these things, but I cannot, I cannot tell you, you will get scared, you will get hurt, but mostly, you will shut down and run away from me.

I want to write, but more than that, I want to make all of these things real again…


© Misty Bishop-Martiss

I swear to you, officer,
I tell the truth.
I was the witness
to a most terrible crime.

You see,
there are people out there,
in the world
(you must have seen them before, sir)
who tend to despise themselves
simply for being who they are.

There isn't actually anything wrong with them
not anything you would see on X-ray scans
or a medical sheet
with little x's through boxes
and unreadable scribbles of tangible symptoms.

but their tears are tangible all the same.

The crime, sir,
is the fact that
sadly, no one sees
that figurative demons
can be as real as any disease.