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 barely surviving. 

Unsaid, unwritten, dead words 

haunt me

and my nightmares are made of 

the poems i shall never write 

because it's hard to wake up

when i'm falling down 

it's hard to stitch my wounds 

when my blood is my ink,

and it pains 

so much in suffering there is

comfort. 

I run towards poetry,

full stops, commas and marks 

blacker than the black hole. 

They suck me in

and throw me out only

when I am

a stranger in my own body

a goddess among demons. 

Alone when I'm not. 

Being a poet isn't a blessing, 

it's a sin

and so, I will sin enough 

just to rule hell again.