Someone said that I must explore other emotions other than agony,
Looking at a paper that is also staring back at me,
The pages were blank as my head, which it wasn't supposed to be.
No matter how hard I tried, there were no blossoming words I can ever set free.
Crossed out words that could associate with happy,
The table was messy with all the crumbed paper you could see.
But my mind was blank.
Ironically, the table was a mess but my mind was blank.
I never had this kind of struggle when writing about grief.
My handwriting was neat and the time I consumed was brief.
But my head was scrambling with words fighting in line to be written,
And untangling themselves in a thread of tangled introspections.
I am some kind of a factory
What's behind the product is a machine that is always noisy.
A process that sometimes is very messy,
A line of thought that is always busy.
But the product is clear and organized.
A messy procedure inside the main plant with a well delivered result from a chaotic idea.
Do you think you can just ask an ice plant to make bread?
Do you think you can just try to organize what is supposed to be a messy process and expect the same outcome?
Now, do you think you can tell an artist to do the opposite emotion they usually express in their art and expect the same impact?
Exactly.
YOU ARE READING
Dolor: Poetry of the unspoken
PoetryCollection of original poems as a way of expressing the author's unsaid thoughts and emotions. A coping mechanism of regretting the "what if's" and haunting forethought. Note that all the poems published are originally my work. Do not post it in an...
