She is Poetry

i wrote this forever ago, but i'm just now finding it c: this poem, is in fact, about me actually. that much i will claim; though this could also stand for any number of people. i hope you find yourself in these lines. c:

i am a muse-less artiste,

painting pictures on the canvas of your eyelids

see me, see the things i see

while i’m placing my soul on this silver platter,

my heart thrust into you hands,

don’t concern yourself with giving it back,

i placed it there for all the world to see, to digest it greedily

eat me, taste me

taste the words that have tattooed themselves onto my skin

taste this blood ink of my mental cavity

as it seeps into the pen and brands the paper

with whispers spilling out onto the winds

carrying these strokes of genius somewhere far away


this poetry,written by a so-called poet,

labeled by those who don’t know her,

she's a girl lost in these thoughts that berate her into stunned silence,

that chain her and claim her as the mess she is:

she is me, and sorrow's slave.

to this girl, this poet that you all so admire,

everything is just a tangible illusion,

the world has become this poor child's stage,

so she acts alright,but her world is afire.

this girl through her stanza's refrains,

boldly states in deep blue ink,

"i’m fine, though i spend my nights crying,

into a tattered pillow that has never known what its like to be dry,"

she exists in those moments and like moth to a light,

her poetry whispers to her,

"like a broken boat on a wrinkled shore of forgotten men,i am fine "

her words patter out,"just fine in my nothingness"


this girl in truthful prose proclaims,

"i smile like life is my winning game,

like missing shards in a mirror can create a new series of perfection",

this is the perfected debut of a performance gone bad,

a playwright, the actors all gone mad,

"i am fine", as a "poet" she writes,

"just fine,

since life has taught me to find nothing in what should've been everything",


this girl of poetry,of the spoken word,

has become a walking bleeding wound

that's gradually become a battle-scar of the mind's internal wars;

she's a faded smile,

a watery thing the shade of blue jeans washed too many times-

the appearance of eyes that have spent their lifetime blind,

her story is one of lost trust,

and hearts trampled underfoot into clouds of blood-red dust,


this poet, this girl labeled by those who don't know her,

but who know the stereotypes,

she knows that its really hard to explain the immensity of the wreckage

to someone that came to a head in the face of the aftermath,

this girl knows, this pretend poet knows,

that the truth is more easily consumed with a series of high-strung words that make the rest of the world feel smart,

so she writes the truth simply.

the lack of complexity shows her to be sorting through the things she's been hearing,

"i am not a poet" this is what she screams,

although her heart does not pump blood but poetic verse,

such as the sun exists in the sky,

this girl,this girl-

she exists in the forgiving arms of poetry.


The End

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