I find myself

Asking myself

What kind of horror,

What magnitude of catastrophe

Will it take for me

To start writing poems again

Why is it that

the fact that I'm imperfectly human

And that I'm surrounded by souls poetic

And melancholic

Not reason enough?

Why is it that

the desire to know myself

And to refine my self-image

And to unravel the complexities

of this god-forsaken world

Not incentive enough?

Is poetry another name for modern religion?

Do people only draw nigh

To absolve of affliction?

Do they enter its sacred shrines

only to turn tail once

the demon of misery creeps away?


It occurs to me

What if there was no grief in this life?

Would people not have discovered this art form?

And with that

Comes another realization

I don't want to go to such a heaven

Where the concept of suffering doesn't exist

Where everyone gets what they deserve

Because then we'll have no pain to

Turn into beauty

And no blood

To turn into brilliance



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