I Used To Be A Poet
I used to be a poet
I had the ability to take the days where I felt I had no bones
And transform them into beauty
With flowing lyrics that went deeper than just the surface
The ability to create beauty from pain was my specialty
And boy, did I thrive
I would crave for the moment
Someone would spit fiery words out of their mouths
So I could absorb them and push out analogies for art
Or when my mental health would fall so far that the numbness could be covered up
With the temporary band aid that is words.
That is the thing.
It’s the topic for so many starving artists
Pain transformed into beauty
You say to yourself
“You can always go deeper into the waters”
This lackadaisical state I was in would inevitably come to a halt when I finally realized that some situations could not be simply pushed under the rug any longer.
Certain situations can come to fruition in which the pain can only rip you open and leave you there to bleed and yet
Still, on the floor, you would be reaching for that pen
This pain that you craved for so long,
Like an addict who believes that they can stop at any moment they choose,
That when your manifestations come to be,
You realize that the tides under which you have intentionally trapped yourself are too great.
It becomes
Pain into beauty then back again
Writing simply becomes a reminder of just how much you have placed deep down into the catacombs of your purposeful isolation from others
The sacrifice of every stitch ripped out from recently healed wounds to simply create.
You become this tired shadow on the waters of the poet that once was.
I used to be a poet