“I used to think poetry was beautiful,
Don’t get me wrong, it is-
The word itself is melodious
It slides so elegantly off your tongue
that it even sounds beautiful.
But all I find in the “beauty”
is bloodied fingers
From craving words more than others;
I find tired eyes, living with regret and despair
I’m tired of poetry
Because these artists think writing a lover into their tattered pages
will make them live forever;
their name may continue to live on,
but truth be told-
they died the moment their footsteps became inaudible.
So I apologize.
For I do not find beauty in tragic love stories,
Or in stories about breaking bones and sharpening ones veins,
Because there is no love story in the scars of tragedy
or in aching bones,
there is no love in the brokenness of a bloodied heart.
There is no love left to write about,
only the memories that echo in our minds
there is no love left, nor a heart that still functions properly.
It was either ripped out by another;
or ripped out by the owner,
who no longer knows what love is”
– (via thericecakerabbit)