To be a poet 
Is to be brought through misery,
Is to see the beauty 
In the littlest things,
The most broken of souls,
The most fragile of hearts, 
The most practiced of smiles;

To find the light 
In the most infinite voids,
To spread the warmth 
Through almost dead finger tips
Even when it barely flickers
Through ones own core,
To find a reason to smile
And hum to the tune of paradise
Even if paradise 
Only exist in beautiful dreams
While the body rests
On the cold ground of despair;

To shed tears that fall as steadily 
As the rain drops 
From the leaky ceiling
Of a broken home 
Where rising voices 
Of a family 
That was built out of love
Cry out for help 
As the hate in their words
And the fury in their fists 
Tear them apart slowly 
And wake the little ones 
Who sleep uneasily 
In the next room;

To hide in dark corners
And weep silently 
So as not to be found
By the one driven to madness 
By the liquor 
That washed away reality 
And left a monster 
With stale breath 
And slurred words;

To stand strong, hand in hand 
With the ones we love 
Even after the dark army 
Of the wicked and the damned 
Have tried to breach our walls
With their guns loaded with lies
Shooting us all 
One after another to watch us fall
And laugh at the ones
Who won’t stand again;

To write sweet sonnets
And seductive words of pleasure
To the ones 
We’ll hand our hearts 
And our innocence over to
Just before, with shaky hands
And swollen eyes 
We write our tragedies 
As we pick up the pieces 
Of the broken trust
That they left of us with;

And to each their own
We tell the world our stories
Whether we come from wealth 
Or poverty,
Loving arms
Or undeserved beatings,
Gentle kisses
Or violently stolen purity,
Good health 
Or lethal sickness,
New shiny shoes 
Or worn down soles,
We are the ones
Who write the truths 
That are locked away 
Behind heavy doors
And guarded vaults;

And when all is said and done 
We struggle 
With a creeping doubt
Of what if our words 
Are not good enough.
And out faith is lost 
In the message 
We feel we have failed to tell,
But if we hold on 
To the last bit of hope we can find
And listen to the ones 
Who help us keep going,
We prevail in our darkest of times
And show the world our gifts.

And to live this life
Through spoken words 
Of difficult pasts 
We prove to be courageous 
And show the world 
What exactly it means 
To be a poet.

08-08-14
poeticallycelestial(Chloé Celeste Scott)