The first time I wrote a poem was pure brokenness, where sadness became my relief, and the pain who has crushed me and tore me to pieces gave me comfort. But when I met you, I tried to change my genre into something blissful, something permanent; no more writings about my dark days and empty feelings because knowing you were here beside me and the overwhelming feeling I’d never thought would put me at ease became my inspiration to make something peculiar out of my familiarity. But my hands betrayed me, my mind was in knots that I couldn’t seem to follow. I ran out of words. It felt like a complete derailing of thought where despair defeated me as I could feel this wasn’t for me and had to give up the poetry inside me.
The first time I wrote a poem was pure brokenness and today I’m writing a poem out of it, because the day you leave me drives me into deep-seated words, my hands are dying to be written until my fingers bleed. Things before I was certain of turns blurry, but the only thing I’m sure of is that creating art today gets back my longing into poetry.
I stopped being a poet when you arrived,
Today, I’m back at it.
