Writing poetry is a dick move.
It decorates its stanzas with heaven’s perfume.
It uses flowery words to hide the author’s pain when all they need is to let it out
Sure the author is letting it out in a discrete way but he or she needs to let it out in its truest and most raw form.
But I ask myself why I still put make up on my words
My lips stop moving.
I am all talk but no action here.
Because in truth. I use these flowered words to cower behind.
Because we authors are cowards
We rather decorate our world with mystery and fantasy rather than face our fears in its raw form.
Oh, you went through a break up? Say it like this:
“I was the glass mirror she shattered with her fist”
You have a mental illness? Say it like this:
“These are not demons. These are sirens. Calling out to me to find them.”
You are in love? Say it like this:
“Cupid must have shot his arrow through my heart once more today.”
This is how we hide.
This is the truth behind poetry.
Poetry is the only way authors can hide without really hiding.
And this is why it is a sort of drug.
Some sort of heavenly outlet
It must be heavenly because it’s better than suicide.
So we will not stop.
Because this is the only way we know how to bring up our feelings.
This is the only way we know how to relate to people like you.
Poetry is a haven for dicks like me.
Poetry protects me,
Gives me sanity.
And I am sure,
If you try it
It will give you sanity too.