20/09/2016
There once was a time
Where I would sit and wallow
In my own despair.
"Why me?"
I would ask breathlessly,
Crying out into the air.
I sought a way to vent;
To find some sort of release.
So I picked up a pen,
And found myself at ease.
I took your cruelest of words
And put them to use.
I wrote the most eloquent of poems
In debt to your abuse.
I know you only sneer such things
In hopes of belittling me.
But the cuts you bore into my skin
Have made me so much stronger;
Something you thought I could never be.
You are playing a game
You will only lose.
I will grow flowers from
Your hatred;
I will weave stanzas from
This noose.
Perhaps I am a masochist,
Perhaps I am a genius,
Or perhaps I am insane.
Either way you play your cards,
I will beat you just the same.
For I find beauty in tragedy;
Inspiration laced with despair.
I have to endure the sensation
Of knives drilled in my back
If I am to write the way I dare.
And while the names you call me
Are deeply taken to heart,
I thank you for your poison;
I need it for my art.
YOU ARE READING
Charcoal Skies
Poetry❝IF I CANNOT WRITE OF MY WOES AND I CANNOT WRITE TO SAVE THE WORLD, THEN WHAT, DARE I ASK, IS THE POINT OF WRITING AT ALL?❞ A collection of thoughts, ramblings, and poems detailing the composite materials of a war-torn mind. Not recommended for thos...
