Poetry is the portal to the release of grief
I want to say the things I never could
The inner weird
And concluding hopefulness
In the melody of a poem
In the sweetness of a song.
I want to express my early life
In it's rawness,
In the arms of soft decorative ribbons
And shiny metallic hearts.
I bleed a bit to find the words
I dig deep,
Uncovering things I’m afraid of seeing.
Maybe I should turn around
But for the sake of expression
And finding beauty in pain,
I will do it over and over and over
This is what it feels like to be an artist, to create.
Wearing out my smile
I grin once more in death’s face
How long can this last?
Some days I want to paint,
some times I want to be painted.
Some days I want to write,
some times I want to be written.
Some days I want to read,
some times I want to be read.
Some days I want to be a gardener,
some times I want to be the flower of that garden.
Some days I want to live,
some times I want to breathe in peace.
Paper cut feeling, a thousand times
Warm touches, that eases sometimes
Puzzle brain with missing pieces
It gets colder, the warmth decreases
Words of comfort, kisses so sweet
Yet its still there, it makes me weak
Forgive the actions, believe the words
Forgetting is impossible, keeps chirping like birds
Like a jellyfish, internal, immortal
Can I burry it, can it be mortal?
The flexible species
If they want
They can conclude
As an epic
Theme: Writing is being
Is it just another perspective?
Or is it a much broader lie?
Is it what makes you fly into the sky?
Or is it that something that helps you through the night?
Is it just an expression of thoughts?
Is it just some feelings that you bought?
For someone, from someone?
Or is it everything that you sought?
Is it like writing your life script?
Or yet another piece of paper that you ripped?
Is it just some words you could gather?
Or is it out there forever,
Once you pieced those words together?
Is it just a combination of phrases and words?
Or is it expounding on a fairy tale that you heard?
Is it just a mysterious experience?
Or is it something more serious?
Is it an escape from this cruel world?
Or is it a declaration of truth with a banner unfurled?
Is it like God speaking through you?
Or is it always within you?
Maybe in different forms and styles,
Something that makes you stop and stay awhile?
Is it a catharsis of a tragedy?
Or something to help you keep steady?
Is it ever hostile?
Or does it always makes you smile?
What is poetry for you?
As the earth needs to be kept alive
In my heart ,so needs you, as together we strive
Like a plant needs the sun
By my side, I need you ***
You're the trunk that keeps me up
You're the half to fill my cup
You're the breeze to my exhausting days
You're my warmth, that I hope remains
You're my shelter from the rain
You're my pillow when things are insane
The eyes I need to see every morning
The cuddles I need when its outside pouring
There are no words for how I feel
In a solemn silence that is cavernous
I fill up the moments with an undefined equation
Abstract and delicately scrawled
The echoes of my writing sounding whole
But the answer meaningless and time-consuming
It is an unknown- but somehow the numbers are tangible
They are like a stagnant lake of denial
Motionless and dark in an ominous moonlight
I feel them pulsing with volume and history
They are my lake of despair that is aching for release
And still, I am silent
Inscribed and listless
Swimming to nowhere in my mind
And solving nothing with inconsistent lines