Mar 2019
its funny, i sit here most of the time with metaphorical phrases churning in my head as i write. everytime i sit down to create i feel thousands of gears turning in my head.
sure, i’m real when i write. my passion lies here, my heart the same. but to me, maybe writing in metaphors is a way to mask a little bit of the hurt, a little less real then telling the truth.
it takes a lot of bravery to go back in time and reflect, to create poetry. writing takes you to a place, not always light. not always beaming with happiness. and i appreciate that. i appreciate the pain that poets go through everytime they relive, rewrite. because it should be. i know that.
i think that’s why i sit here, hurting most of the time. i think, wow, the one thing i love to do hurts. and that’s why i’ve been wanting to write about you and so many others. those who have escaped me. those who have stood by my side. maybe through my own selfish mistakes. maybe by their own demise.
every person that enters or exits my life has been written about. be that in my soul, on paper, or displayed on a computer screen. you’re there. and that’s pretty ******* special because its nice to be seen. i can’t tell them in person how much they meant to me, because i’m simply not good enough at doing that, i mean cant you see? i crave acceptance in all aspects of my life, and i am too fragile emotionally to let them know what i really mean.
for me to sit here, to dig, to romanticize, demonize, glorify. willingly be vulnerable with myself and others, it’s a lot. i’m nobody to be pitied, not by a long shot. no poet is and that’s not what we look for. just harmony, balance and not too much more. it is something that writing gives us. because the pain of retelling the latter and the late is almost worth the harmony that the release brings to create.
maybe aspects of myself have been lost throughout the years, but one thing remains. my writing. my poetry, my endless drafts, and journal entries stained with fallen tears that could be around for centuries. they tell my story. of you and everyone else who has left a mark on me. i am who i have been given and THAT is what i mean. what i have been given will forever be apart of my writing, therefore, a part of me.
this is a tribute to poets everywhere, as they caress their soul. as they mourn themselves in even the brightest of times even as they grow old. when they reminisce on the nostalgia of greater moments through rhymes. but most of all, this is a tribute to me as i strive to make myself feel. even if it’s anything less than alive.
sure, i’m real when i write. my passion lies here, my heart the same. but to me, maybe writing in metaphors is a way to mask a little bit of the hurt, a little less real then telling the truth.
it takes a lot of bravery to go back in time and reflect, to create poetry. writing takes you to a place, not always light. not always beaming with happiness. and i appreciate that. i appreciate the pain that poets go through everytime they relive, rewrite. because it should be. i know that.
i think that’s why i sit here, hurting most of the time. i think, wow, the one thing i love to do hurts. and that’s why i’ve been wanting to write about you and so many others. those who have escaped me. those who have stood by my side. maybe through my own selfish mistakes. maybe by their own demise.
every person that enters or exits my life has been written about. be that in my soul, on paper, or displayed on a computer screen. you’re there. and that’s pretty ******* special because its nice to be seen. i can’t tell them in person how much they meant to me, because i’m simply not good enough at doing that, i mean cant you see? i crave acceptance in all aspects of my life, and i am too fragile emotionally to let them know what i really mean.
for me to sit here, to dig, to romanticize, demonize, glorify. willingly be vulnerable with myself and others, it’s a lot. i’m nobody to be pitied, not by a long shot. no poet is and that’s not what we look for. just harmony, balance and not too much more. it is something that writing gives us. because the pain of retelling the latter and the late is almost worth the harmony that the release brings to create.
maybe aspects of myself have been lost throughout the years, but one thing remains. my writing. my poetry, my endless drafts, and journal entries stained with fallen tears that could be around for centuries. they tell my story. of you and everyone else who has left a mark on me. i am who i have been given and THAT is what i mean. what i have been given will forever be apart of my writing, therefore, a part of me.
this is a tribute to poets everywhere, as they caress their soul. as they mourn themselves in even the brightest of times even as they grow old. when they reminisce on the nostalgia of greater moments through rhymes. but most of all, this is a tribute to me as i strive to make myself feel. even if it’s anything less than alive.
