One of the things I don’t understand is this immense and deep obsession people have when it comes to heartbreak and pain. They say that when you undergo the process of getting your heart broken, we give birth to our art. That’s why we are familiar with Cobain’s words, “Thanks for the tragedy, I need it for my art.” We often nurture the feeling as if it were our child, being cradled in our arms, pushing away its hair off of his face, and encouraging him to grow to the boy he is about to be in the future. We often romanticize the feeling of staying up late at three a.m. in the morning, eyes puffed up from crying, lips stained with prayers and wishes that someday this pain will make absolute sense to us. We write about our experiences, ink them on journals and back of receipts, paint them on empty canvasses and create sculptures out of them, immortalized the emotional state you’re in, and beg that words and colors would be enough to delay the agony that’s been raging inside our chests.

But that’s where we are wrong. Heartbreak and pain shouldn’t be the benchmark of the art we’re going to make. We should write when we are happy, when we are in the highest state of our minds, with the world under our feet and the sky just within reach. We should write when the tears in the corners of our eyes are creation of pure joy, when our hands shake because we are so **** happy of the state we are in, when our knees turn soft because we couldn’t stand the fact that here we are, frolicking in the waves of pure bliss. So that when we are sad and feeling the blues, we have something to read or something to look at and think, “Ah, those were good times. Those were the happy times. Those were the best times.”

You're really pretty strange.
The way others speak of you.
Without ever really knowing you,
Or having spent time in your presence.
Often they talk at you,
then listen to you speak.
But seem to hear words
different from the
ones you spoke.

Strange, quite strange.
Though, it seems to work well for you.
Whatever you take or say.
whoever you bruise;
metaphorically or literally.
Is transformed then by some act
of inner god, to acts which
sanctify the passion that
you inspire.
That passion which sparks bonds,
matrimony and procreation.

And yet it seems, as songs
has often said, you really are forever.
Even if you are not with
them forever.

In the search of time...
We lost it,
While waiting for the future
We gained nothing...

The moment is here...
But we tried to escape it

When is happiness arriving?
When treasures are junk

And you slowly picked up the pieces
But you don't have none

Your future is this moment
Tendencies are free

Come join me with the serenade
Where love is there to be...

As the moment approaches I'm writing this to you
With future pass and present
Is contained and true

Sometimes you must hurt in order to know,
fall in order to grow,
lose in order to gain,
because most of life's greatest lessons are learned through pain,
But you ignoring me is something
I can't describe
I felt that if I ignore you
Everything will go fine
But it was as good as taking poison
Please forgive me and
Release me out of my pain....

It's funny how you're my sun,
Warming my soul on the coldest of days
When the piercing stilettos of winter
Penetrate my body.
Yet on other days you burn my skin
Like a million untamed sparks
Lunging at the hand of the man
Who feeds the flames
Because he doesn't want to see them die.