Ashes and Poetry
Being a poet isn't a blessing, it's a sin. I do not fear hell because I know it very well. It breaks me down from the inside until i'm nothing but cracked pieces carelessly forced into a whole, pieces with edges which cut my heart and it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds until there's only white. Bereft of peace. Even in my silence there is chaos. Being a poet isn't a blessing it's a sin. I do not want the heaven, which exists beneath my skin. It stamps the impressions of the past on my mind and the stones of the present on my soul to make sure I'm never able to escape, run away, fly into nothingness, no. You feel emotions I drink them, gulp them down with my eyes closed, red, yellow, grey, blue cups a day, like they're the poison I need to live. I am addicted to my feelings. Being a poet isn't a blessing it's a sin. I am not living in art, I am bare...