Hint of Purple

Slam Poetry Night

Once upon a lifetime ago, a poem was written when you existed within the depths of despair you numbly swam in and prayed to God that He could just take your soul right then and there, and you wouldn't care if you ended up in eternal flames.

The lone soul stood in front of the piercing gazes of questioning seekers and froze when the poem was supposed to be introduced. "Talk," you told the poor, pathetic soul, "Explain."

Explain why your tongue grew ten times heavier, or why your heart raced erratically against your chest, or why your worn out eyes filled with that familiar burning sensation, or why you couldn't even look into your family's way when you finally croaked out the words about a poem you wrote about your lifelong partner.

People clapped and they cheered, but did they really? You couldn't really hear laughter, or sense the vibrations of their applause. Honestly, it was all a hazy blur of letters jumbled up in that piece of paper you clutched to as a lifeline. But look at you! You put on the best performance right after that dreadful poem when you smiled and hugged your friends, whom gushed at your beautiful rhythms and raw symbolism.

"It's about him, isn't it?" Your best friend asked, insinuating about the very person you've desperately given your sad, vulnerable heart to, only to have it painstakingly drained of every speck of hope you had about love. The lone soul laughed dismissively, not entirely answering the question or negating the context. Because you wished it was about the boy, you wished it was about the story of the one-sided first love. You wished the boy had made you feel this much pain, this much anger, this much defeat, to write a poem such as this one. You wished the lifelong partner you wrote about was the stupid, dorky boy who broke your heart instead of the lethal voice that lived inside your head.

The lone soul always loved to perform their once upon a story, just so you could brag about how good you are at hiding things. You forced to pretend that you were fine, and escaped through muddy imagery and rhetorical phrases so you won't face the very difficult truth.

You.
Are.
Not.
Okay.

And writing a fairytale version of your pain in flowery metaphors and pretty words won't make the voices go away, won't loosen the harsh grip on your chest, won't bring back the sun into your pitch black void.

So stop.

Write to move along with the wave of despair, not to drown in the ocean. Write to express the numbness and the agonizing pain, not to bury it in your self-made grave. The lone soul wouldn't want to die if you let yourself feel.

Let yourself heal.