melaninmaat

Poetry is the work of a poet; he is a craftsman like any other. The notion that anybody can be a poet is ridiculous. It's the same as saying anybody can be a mason: it takes rigorous devotion and effort. Anybody can be inspired, but not anybody can write a functioning poem-- that is a, a work of rhythmic literature that uses figurative language to convey something. That "something" is what makes poetry so difficult. A poem taps into some aspect of the plethora of human emotion, making poetry universal regardless of time or place; that is, even if a reader can't identify with the situation or time period of the poet, the underlying sentiment w

I found meaning In words so unspoken, And the places No eye catches. In the shade of behemoth movement, Watching a life Behind the borders of mind, Without a breath or word A reason to question the air above my head. How I breathe And am held down, And crawl through forests Still as the sky. Release burden, And listen to what was always there Between branches and channels, And breathe. Learn from each To know yourself. And the one's you would surrender it all for. Continue with that emblem To reaches Out of corners. Make the road your own. Forget each curve And listen in silence. There we fi

I am trying to cover my sadness with words. Tape them against my scars & wear them like worthy paper cuts.  My tears are alcohol swabs, burning & cleansing wounds of my own making. Sometimes, I wish I could hide behind them forever. But not even this journeyed flesh can stand castle strong against speechless ink stains. I know the code.  This body does not deserve a warriors death.  & poetry, you're a monster— a creative monster, but evil nonetheless. I wish to string you into knots, force feed you down the throats of others.  De-format you & leave you empty; freeversed- to hang loosely along the heartstrings of strangers

I might be dangerously on the verge of being poetic, but- Sometimes I don't feel me in my own skin. I am too many breaks between pulses, & a heart still living in the autumn of 99. I'm telling stories about a girl. A soul made of ink & godly metaphors, too much for a non-homeostatic body. There were once fireflies in her smile, alight between the gaps in her teeth. A rebel, love letters carved into wrists she never sent. Poetry, She is Porphyria, & you are her lover.