June 15, 2014 § Leave a comment
Poetry makes me feel alive in the most horrid way possible.
It reminds me of my capability of shedding tears and forming grins
by the knocking of its stanzas to the passage of my interpretations;
the ticket to an in-construction hall of a treasure-less museum.
It drains every pheromone in me and once emotion felt.
Even the situations I’ve never experienced,
I have lived through the pauses–
and emphasis of those heart-rending points taken by poets,
where in every turned pitched there’s an elevated response
in the rate of blood delivered to the curved fingers wrapped around a pen.
As of now, I feel that by every word written,
I’ve been drenched of all of my feelings as a wet shirt dried after
having been ridden, from the shore under the rays of the sun.
I’m like a tilting flower, when watered its stem becomes turgid,
but if ever watered excessively,
its cells undergo plasmolysis and soon burst,
destroying all the beauty it once embodied and wore so carelessly, so wondrously.
It is happiness in the form of an overpowering wave, demolishing-
in which the aftermath is its deep-rooted nemesis: sadness.
They go together like the yin and yang,
inescapable, in harmony, though to each other an enemy;
two interchangeable elements as the soil and the air.
I wish to wilt, only to be watered again.