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