Poetry can be in the form of many different things. Such as, formal poetry; the making of stanzas following in suit with each other; some words rhyming and other words not. Sometimes, poetry can be determined by the making of a story; the beauty one may find in it. Sometimes poetry is a genre and other times it is used in a metaphorical sense.
I love poetry. I love the way it makes me feel, the chills I get that creep upon my skin, how my heart drops in my chest, and the sensation it overwhelms me with. The aesthetic of it—the art it becomes. Words are beautiful. Words are poetry.
And maybe I find poetry in many things—I make poetry out of a lot of things.
Like people. The way people move, the way people talk, the way people are. The way they make me feel, whether that be negative or positive. Or both.
Like emotions. The ones I wish to feel, the ones im damned with, and the ones I have never experienced.
Like nature and my surroundings. The way the sun hits a patch of grass at the brink of morning, the smell of crisp air during fall weather, and the color conversion in leaves with each seasonal change.
Utmost, I find myself mostly intrigued by the poetry of men. Boys, I like to say, but men scientifically. During summer, I find myself getting lost in a random boy's eyes, hypnotized by their dark brown pigments. Focused on the green and yellow glints under rays of sunshine. My breath catches when the wind blows, and their brown locks blow with it. Chills ravel upon my skin when they take it in their hands to brush their knuckles against mine and nestle their noses into my neck. Paralyzed as they would move their lips across my chin and then my cheeks, my breath catching when they'd travel downward. How events would quickly unwrap themselves, which would cause rapid beating in my chest. I became dependent on their mouths; the words that would leave them and the actions they did with them. My need for that became obsessive and addictive. And then, heartbreak would arrive. Out of nowhere. Every time.
Maybe it wasn't out of nowhere, I'd be aware as it crept up on me. Aware that my summer flings were nothing more than just that but hurt and devastated because they never developed to be more than what they were designed to be. Like I was never enough for them to try and make it more. Even if I claimed I wanted otherwise.
Heartbreak/heartache was my most bittersweet poetry. Beautiful in every wrong way; hurtful in every obvious one.
I think I became prone to the pain eventually, because it slowly turned into a routine. A routine like "we're going to do this and then they're going to leave." It just became disappointment in myself, in what I was doing, and how I would do it so easily.
Self-deprecation became all I knew.
With time, I truly believed I'd dig myself out of the hole I'd created. Because that was what happened—I had dug my own hole. I was responsible for its growing depth enhancement.
But it was my ongoing poetry I couldn't seem to stop.
