So you tell me if I write about my unrequited love
Then I’m a poet?
That the sadness spilling from my hands
Is actually my freedom?
That the agonizing feelings in my heart
Are beautiful and sacred?
You say if someone breaks my heart
Then it’s a masterpiece?
That crying myself to sleep
Helps me through night?
That my out bursting break downs
Are just a proof of pure and honest love?
And when I drown in my depression,
Writing things on which I hate,
You telling me that it is awesome?
Am I supposed to go along,
Feel all better,
Or actually continue on?
How do you see an upper side in this?
A happy string that’s wrapped inside my sadness?
How messed up should I be
To see it too?
My heart is hurting
And there’s nothing good in this
I fail to see the beauty
In the wounded core
Where’s the glory in the tragic?
Where’s the fame in being sad?
Horrid is no synonym of charm
It goes with hateful, cursed, offensive
It goes with rotten, wretched, repulsive
And weeping is no grace
There’s no glamour in being broken;
No elegance in crying out
Just as delicacy does not describe the dead
If a broken heart is what I need
To be a poet,
If beauty means to suffer much,
Then I won’t write a poem
Then I’ll stay ugly for the world
I won’t drown in the applause
Of the world of poets
If it means that I won’t bleed
If being broken’s what it takes
To write this poem being sacked,
Then I prefer
To keep my heart intact