MAD HOUSE

I when we look in a garden, we only admire the beauty of the flowers, we don’t think about the weeds the flowers had to fight to reach that stage in which their beauty is displayed. the beauty of my poetry is a reflection of how hard i fought but no one sees this.

II I hate writing poetry. Poetry of you and me. My pen still sets my demons free. I love you still, it’s plain to see. And will until eternity.

III It’s true, I hate poetry but Listen before you judge. I hate the swamp-like writers block Impossible to budge; I hate the words that won’t come out, The stuff that I can’t say; The half-formed thoughts swirled in my brain I can’t make go away; I hate when I don’t understand The feelings in my heart; I hate the times I want to write But just can’t make a start; But poetry is in my soul, And what I hate the most Is all I won’t have time to write- My own poetic ghost.

IV there came a time in mid-december when everything tasted like the mints of old september i saw your eyes i saw your smile and your visions bade me stay for just a while but all the pages i had typed were burning, burning in the night and they burned so bright and true they blinded me with hues of blue

V How terrible of me that sometimes My heart grows weary And its ink runs dry And I contemplate handing it over to defeat That sometimes I earnestly believe that writing is all for naught All these failures are my fault And I cannot help the anger that washes over me And I blame it all on poetry When really I got caught up in my vain search for fame And forgot the selflessness that is The true meaning of poetry 

VI you ask me about my poetry, and usually, i am at a loss for words. how do i describe something that flows in my veins as easily as blood? but i also wanna tell you that sometimes this blood turns to poison, sometimes the way i look at the world is ‘too dark’, and sometimes i feel like i would never have the courage to face the words again, that i would never be able to revisit the feeling. sometimes i chastise myself for hating every word that i write. sometimes i have to punch the wall till it’s red and my knuckles are bruised so i don’t have to deal with my fingers not being able to hold still. sometimes it’s my voice pulling me down and sometimes its others’; the words hurt and they sting. but they also love and they heal. you ask me a lot about my poetry, and i always end up saying that the only way i’ll ever accept death is bit by bit, day by day, the words engulfing my soul, my very being.

VII Exsanguination exhale, compose in the language of judas—a kiss, rather, a war between thought and paper we call these words blood and ink, a weapon formed when silence becomes a drum, a thrumming pulse bleeding out—quietus

VII Words cut themselves too thin for feelings to house meaning past hello; I bleed in color for you, but all you feel is rain against your eyelids. Love is the catalyst for destruction & we’ve never held anything whole; darling, I said your name left gently, but I still caress the exit wound; it’s everyday of counting moons until I can write you out of the air

& become a part of your story

IX The empty purge of writer’s block dry tongue scraping teeth, teeth taming tongue, twitching fingers that lay at ready on the keyboard. Writing is an art, but writing poetry is an artful ache the confliction of catharsis and audience appeasement, of doubt and determination.  It’s sitting in the corner of a panic room with two versions of yourself, arguing.

X I despise rhythm and rhyme, always chasing time, and emotions between meaning. Let’s see … what can I convey, what do I wish to show? And what will be misinterpreted between the sow and the reap, and what words will be forgotten, after I’ve pulled from the heap?

Amassing like bodies in trench warfare, phrases I could not find, words beyond my mind.

Poetry is not an enemy, but I see it as a challenger, and have come to despise, not the challenge, but my mind. it’s inability to free from the boundaries of language and leap to new heights to connect folks who will never respect one another enough to see just how similarly we all bleed.

Puns are playful lips on the nape of your neck,

Unusual words chosen, unbutton and reveal

Selecting and placing phrases so your breath runs ragged