The Privilege Of Writing Poetry.

You come up to me with glittery eyes
and ask me how does the privilege of
writing poetry feel like
And I like mugged up answer, I tell you
that it feels great
but it doesn't
It feels like the shadow of the last
person living
in my room hanging from ceiling fan
and staring at me
It feels like his hand inside me tearing
and clawing amdist my screams
It feels like having the picture of your
grandmother's corpse glued to your
eyelids
It feels like monster under your bed
is pulling you by your hair

Shaking,you ask why
And I say,
because poetry is a glass house
made up of daimond hinges
It looks so beautiful
Paints tragedy as a fairytale,
But what you don't see is
To paint tragedy as a fairytale
I have to look at a fairytale with the
lenses of tragedy,
How easy is inevitable and happiness
consequential
And how your hands make me bleed
eyes when you kiss me safe at night.
This is the privilege of writing poetry.