you strip away all the dirty clothes run your fingers around the scars to remind yourself of what it feels to be alive what it means to survive.
even the greatest destructions leave a little life behind, maybe that is why you feel a little something in your numb bones.
nights collapses into some bare Bukowski lines they fall they shatter and it hurts,
like the way a fine whiskey burns your body in the coldest night, when the right words struggle to fall out of your mouth to a half-burned page you don't know what to do with
they get stuck behind a door you're too afraid to open. funny how things die in the unwritten words funny how you get drunk on this brokenness and fall in love with your solitude
as if this loneliness is the drug you've been looking for as if it fixes that part of you that you don't know how to fix
so you make love to some old feelings lit a cigar and stare at the skyline find poems in the mundane things lurking in the streets you write about everything except you then you keep all your feelings behind a closed door, too afraid to let them go wild in this scary world.
I'm still nowhere closer in finding a proper answer. Maybe I've been looking at the question wrong, trying to find that one answer and say "this is what I feel, this is what writing means to me". Maybe I'm still not mature enough to give you an answer. But at this very moment, writing means a million different things.
Maybe it is about expressing all the deep emotions you always wanted to tell. Maybe it is a way to escape the troublesome reality. Maybe it is a way to create a new reality to feel the things you've lost. Maybe it is therapy. Maybe it is a way to share what you feel with the world. Maybe it is about the strange girl you met on the street. Maybe it is about the stories of all the strangers you've met.
Faces and names are easy to forget but stories stay.
This uncertainty is the best part, it gives you a lot of worlds to explore, trying to find an answer that can feed your hungry screams. Some nights, you just look at the ceiling as if it knows all the answers. As if an answer can make everything better. But this numbness you feel is collective insomnia of all the ones that look for answers at two in the morning.
then you write
maybe that's why everyone's a poet at two in the morning. when the world is silent and dreams fall asleep, you look for words to fill all the voids, trying to make sense of all the feelings that you drowned with colored pills.
You write about everything, some make sense and some never do. You write about the way she talks about stars and the universe, how it all makes perfect sense to her even if the world never understands the insanity.
"Sane love is not love", right?
You write about how her smile and curls in her hair slowly blend with the sunset. Red, deep reds against the deep blues of an ocean. It is both terrifying and tranquil at the same time. Another day dies and you're one more day closer to death. May some endings are just new beginnings and some eulogies are love letters to the stars.
You write about how she makes you feel, how every letter and words falls in the right place at the right time and even when it makes no sense, you'll realize not everything deserves an answer. Some voids are never meant to be filled with random things, even the emptiness makes a perfect art.
You write about how every single atom in your body dancing to the same monotony and how terrifying it is to be alive. How giving up makes a lot of sense than fighting to survive. How even the colored pills cannot save you from the darkest nights. How you feel a little sad even in the happy endings, how you feel depressed without any reason. How you've been bullied, taken advantage of, being judged for who you are and a million more things...
You write about how unfair the world is. You talk about ideologies, ways to make the world a better place, yet in the end, it never really matters. How the world is dying, how people get judged based on their religion, race, color, even the length of their clothes. You write about how irritating it is that we live in a world where the people don't even want to open their eyes and their mouth but to follow the leaders of old age.
You write because you want to. You write because it makes sense to you. You write because you hope that there is someone out there in the crowd who feels the same, who find it relatable, who has gone through the same dark path and still survived. You write because you want to feel like you belong somewhere, part of something that gives you hope even if its for a temporary moment.
Maybe that is enough.
Poetry has a million more meanings, so what poetry is and how to write a poem is something I cannot tell you. Maybe everyone's a poet, from William Shakespeare and Emily Dickinson to Atticus and Rupi Kaur. Even though I hate the one-liner cliches and "social media status" poems, there may be someone out there who found it relatable. Who am I to judge right? Maybe one day they will grow up and see the world through the eyes of Shakespeare, Frost, and Neruda, maybe they never will and I guess that is okay too. Not everyone can understand art in its pure form right? The world would have been a better place if that was possible.
Someone has lived this life, lies down on the same space and looked at the same sky wondering about the same damn questions. Some managed to find the right words to tell the story and some never did. Maybe all of this is how I feel, maybe you feel it too. Maybe this story is mine, maybe this story is about some random stranger with no name or a face, maybe this story is yours. Does it really matter?
some poems aren't meant for the world. so you keep them in the empty space between the stars, and hope one day in the strangest night, someone will come along and wonders about all the stories that light forgot to tell.
The melodramatic moana of venerated eidolon, Dearth of sinister blues and greys, Festooned with ataraxis clinging pinnacles, Welcoming the ebbs with utter graciousness, Those sensuous bouts of their romance, Flaunts the imperial love of aesthetic entity!
A drop of sinister in the atmosphere Heralds the rippling doubts of the presence of secrets in your mysterious breath Such as how the autumnal crisp hids the aureates of summers beneath its bronzing rust, And such as how the blues of waves disguises the blackness of its depth, I was beguiled by your perfidious presence;
Yet i have the eyes of the sun Where i could distinguish the gold among the bronze with my penetrative rays And my soul, embraced by the spirits of the moon, were the stars among the tapestries of nights Thus, my illumination itself will reveal the depth of every shadow that befalls upon the sea of your heart ..
Smoky glass balls, and black marbles Inhale poignant desires, nakedly Forming crystals of poison Within my burning skin. Captivated blood, inside veins And apparitions, lurching In my weeded skull. I see, a spark of dark Fuming wildly around me, Shrouding me, with the darkest malices. As candles melt into wax, And drip over my body. Black fires get smoothered Making shards of my shadow, Pierce through my skin. Glancing over the cold breaths, 'cause snow dust cascade From my drab eyeballs. Ice flakes grow, in cores of my bones Tossing the pain to shudder silently. While I swallow down the aster blood, Twisting the morbid feelings, frantically, Acids brew up inside my heart Blazing my papery emotions.
My body lies in corner Of every dark room, Choking in the jars of deadly gloom. And my truths fade away, like tears, From the kaleidoscopes of earthly years.