4 years agoinspiretbh  
inspiretbh

People say I can write. Some say I learned how to, that I chose to. Others say I was born with the capability to turn feelings into words because I inherited a pencil where my mouth should be and paper where my skin covers my aching body. But none of this is true. I did not choose to become a poet. You don’t choose to be a poet. Because being a poet means feeling the rain drip down the windowpane since your words are shaking and your world is collapsing around you. Being a poet means feeling things you’ve never felt before, like feeling near to nothing at all or the weight of the world on your shoulders. You feel the leaves fall on an autumn day and the sun rise on a summer morning. You feel peoples words seep into your memory and the simple breeze chokes your every move as you wish for better days. But you don’t learn to feel until pain is knocking at your door and agony is opening up the window only to come inside and shut your curtains so the light doesn’t shine anymore and your trapped inside your memories while oppression seeps deep within my heart, my home, and the only way to ease the aggravation for a little while is to take my skin and use my mouth to write beautiful excerpts of writing for all the other people being suffocated by the heartbreak as well. You don’t become a poet until the red roses are sitting on your windowsill drooping from the time that has passed dealing with the torment of living in a world of black and white with nothing but his favorite color stained on my canvas and I cannot do anything but cover it up with the dull colors of this life, but if I cover it up: he will still be there. So I write away my feelings on a blank piece of paper because I am as empty as that piece of paper with no captivating words written down because the silence is deafening and the feelings are overwhelming. And thats how you become a poet. That’s when you write away your heart on a will because it becomes almost an addiction, as if the vodka can’t drown the memories and the cigarettes can’t light up the pain so you learn to write instead. So listen to me when I say this, that poetry is not beautiful. What was a glistening type of crimson blood was never quite that. The blood was just red and the heartbreak was once love. And I am just a girl who was a little too blinded to realize that the boy I fell in love with played with matches while I had a paper heart.