Цветница

when the doubt is creeping in

and it takes the sense away

and instead my hidden grief

turns my passion into grey;

I can paint a picture black

when the sky is like me - blue

but my heart is gold, not dark

tried to force myself to work

my will didn't work anymore

Here, said God,

the gift of agony

now belongs to you;

your heart is but a vessel

for the world's pain;

and when it fills up

don't forget to empty it -

here, I give you this pen;

keep writing to sustain yourself -

and if you don't -

you gotta carry

the whole world's sorrow

inside of a tiny heart;

And remember -

if you don't write

your heart will burst

from the pain it contains;

I've seen what happens

with these unfortunate ones:

they stare at the ceiling

for far too long; blaming me

for not making the pain go away;

they ask me what's the purpose;

they wish for ease and ignorance

and envy breadwinners daily errands

that never even made sense

but they didn't even need to;

My non-writing agony holders

of the world;

I gave you free will so you

use your gift as you wish;

but as your God -

I can tell you this much -

I created you to write;

on the worst of nights

perfectly sane words whisper

A dream so weirdly simple

minding my business

doing all the things I love

completing my tasks

I let out a bitter sigh

I realized what I was describing -

I know exactly who needs to hear this but I see right through all the trauma you're trying to cover with substances and superficiality. The thing is, if you let it stay, you're just spreading the goddamn virus of people who are terrified to love.

And love, my dear, is the thing that should be where you've been putting your bullshit these days.

Right at the center of your being.

Yeah, it is fucking scary to let things get deep, because then you're suddenly suffering through other people's consequences like I am with y'all rn.

The ones we love will do the stupidest shit to themselves and even from across the world you get to feel the pain for them. Y'all are pissing me off so much but I love you enough to keep calling you on your shit until the end of eternity.

And I couldn't care less how you feel about me if I love you. Because love is who I am and who I choose to be.

Be in denial as long as you need to. I'll be here anyway.

"My role is small but I make a change"

His ice melted by the fire he set in me

But mama taught him not to get burned

Instead of a song of ice and fire

Our story became the one where

The mother in me built a fireside

And the child in him ran away into the wild

Bluish me that no one knew

promised me that I just might

always keep his point of view

cause I might just not be right

*

I am more that he can chew

But to keep him I must bend

So the things in him that hurt

I just work to understand

*

He to me was rarely good

but was different to his friends

Tried as hard as someone could

But it wasn't making sense

*

What I know he always knew

to believe I made the choice

that a thing could be the truth

even said in my own voice.

"Stop the victim mentality"

I screamed my whole life

with some smart person's voice

until the good kind of pain

proved to me

I'm running away from a truth

Dear brain,

won't you lie to me and tell me

five minutes of work

won't actually hurt

like it always does when I do

without your permission?

If you just lie to me

I will at least bear to stand up

cause I lost a goddamn month to the

five minutes of pain I could easily bear

cause they're nothing compared to

my body frozen facing the ceiling

while my thoughts call me by

the name of my shame

that my dreams

are being crushed by

five goddamn minutes

I didn't even choose

not to start.

Dear brain,

Please let me bear my pain.

I never vibed too much with

what Rupi had to say

But I always admired

how her name

makes men behind desks

green with envy

because "poetry"

they say, "is for people

like us.

and her messages

make people

unlike us bother to care

about poetry, and poetry

is for people like us."

Common sense says

experts gotta be

right, you know?

But what does poetry

have to do with

common sense,

anyway?

What kind of poetry runs

through the veins of those

who would rather

crush a poetic soul

than let it sing her songs

and live her life

and make a living

in her own way

living the dream of ancient

poets who died with no

recognition, she's here

to pave the way to another

generation of poets

who can buy groceries

with songs

in the dying world

of suits meaning value

Rupi became an anecdote

meaning

"anyone could write

these days. "

and that, my beloved,

is just facts.