i used to have this insecurity before,
because i feel like
i can’t say the things that i want to say
as clear as the bright sky,
unlike how other poets tell stories
about dragons and other creatures
that seem untrue, but they can
easily make it realistic through wordplay.
and then i would hate being in this path,
because i feel like
i can never be as good as them.
my words bear no meaning;
they feel lightweight,
they are too weak to
reach the core of a soul.
that thought makes me sad.
really sad, that i often think about
leaving the pages of my
unfinished poems on the table
across an open window
and let the wind decide
where to take them,
and run far away
from this little cabin
to live a normal life
in a normal urban city.
but i realized that
fuck it.
if i’m not going to die a poet,
then flowers will stop sprouting.
because if i die,
and there were still words left in my body
that i failed to write,
i’m sure that they will find their way out
of me and crawl back to earth again.
if i’m not going to die a poet,
where will the flowers come from?
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Poetry"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
