Modern day artists do not write with quillsBut we still go out by day drinking and overdosing on pills
Typewriters evolve into parents' laptops
Edgar Allen Poe still a chronically depressed poet's mascot
Medicine in the cabinet for when we have lost our flame
Don't you know the best of them burn out with fame?
Some of us never make it till we have long been gone
So, we live out our lives feeling as if we have done wrong
Trauma's been known to enhance our talents
Four hellish years of junior high have made me a maverick
Keyboards force me to look at the dirt under my nails
And I try to scrub the grime from under, but to no avail
I still read these carefully plucked out words in my abuser's voice
Still hear him lecture despite a delicate word choice
Despite mans cruelness we all wish to be rocked to sleep
Whether we lie awake in an empty bed or rest on frigid streets
Suffering is not limited to those who are perceived to be weak
But I still resent those who can afford the food that they eat
Starved artists aim to be the very thing that they hate
Because we are tired of buying dollar menu items with our last bits of gathered change
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YOU ARE READING
Accepting what I cannot
PoetrySynopsis After years of unresolved trauma, I have decided to write a book consisting of poetry that I have written in some of my deepest moments of self-reflection. Some bittersweet, others uncensored with raw emotion. I mention both the strugg...