i didn't know my mind was dark until i released its contents onto paper and with a pen i began to turn my thoughts into poems. and people will tell me things like how my work is hauntingly beautiful, or just plain sad. are they aware that this is not just art i'm creating but my very own pain converted into words converted into what they call art? who determines the definition of art and what is and what it isn't? words are just words, i'm merely having a conversation with everyone and no one simultaneously, simply trying to rid myself of these nightmares eating at my brain. and yet you applaud this so called skill, my ability to formulate depressing thoughts and make them beautiful. this is not a complaint but a mere observation. isn't it odd that we as humans can so carelessly enjoy someone else's tragedy if it is categorized as art? and it isn't odd that we as humans continue to share our pain as long as others are enjoying it, because to us that means something good might actually come from the heartbreak we've endured? And isn't it odd that art can be found in a single tear, a heartbeat, a voice, a face? she and the pain she causes are art. i am nothing but a paintbrush.
YOU ARE READING
w o r d s ¿
Poetrypoetry is how i cleanse my soul of the demons hiding behind my hopeful eyes. //all of these poems were written by me\\