my poetic underground:

he tells me,

“you can write for hours on hours, of all the things you wish to be, of all the emotions you’d like to feel and all the memories you long to keep because the truth of the matter is, you are not your poetry.”

his words linger. i’m unable to be digest them, for they sit inside my mind unresting. did he mean for them to be so unsettling? see, poetry is all i have ever known, somewhere my thoughts lay, a safe haven for my speech to call home. poetry is a vice that teaches me to be rough around the edges, to speak of my trauma and destruction with satire and aggression. i often feel like a word that no one can define, sometimes an introvert, a narcissist, often both combined. i believe that ink runs through my veins to narrate my past transgressions, a way to organise my grief, a way to filter through my pain and indispositions. my poetry displays the most damaged parts of my soul where there are demons dancing around my heart, trying to seize control. by now, i’m well acquainted with the villains that live inside my head, maybe it’s a little too complex for him to comprehend all of the chaos i’ve met and all of the poison that life injects. know, my chest is a graveyard overcrowded with my darkest of thoughts that i’ve never had the courage to say, my eyes an ocean of feelings longing to spill astray. see, my voice, a sniper that fires through my written words, it knows how to aim across all my analogies and metaphors, and to immortalise its kills in verse. my poems are more than he can see, they pour emotion into all the lost souls who bleed, they are for the ones who cannot speak of their torment because they’ve buried it far too deep. yes, i may not always be my poetry but my poetry is all of me.

              ~maysablogs