I hate the sense of obligation I have when I write.
I could care less if there's a pattern or a rhyme.
I do not write to write poetry.
Poetry is a form of delivery, a more delicate voice for the battlecry inside of me,
A way to release my chaotic thoughts.
I hate wanting to make sense to you
But I want to make sense to you
So maybe somewhere someone will read my heart and know they are reading my heart.
My brain and heart clash, clatter,
Chaos in a cluster intangible, so I instead try to make it legible
Because I cannot physically fight my demons or the thick inks that weigh down my veins.
I hate this,
I hate every word coming out of me right now,
Artificial and laminated,
Served to You, my Reader,
Seasoned to what I hope is your liking:
Far too mild.
I wish I could scream through words,
I wish I could finally write something with enough honesty and emotion that I feel like it was worth writing.
After every sentence I want to exit this page,
Close this book,
Slash big ****** red "X"s on everything in this artificial life.
I will not end this gracefully.
My thoughts are not graceful.
Dear inner artistry: go **** yourself.