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| Photo by the Author |
might be, could be, the art that weaves us together in existencebeyond natural senses, we find ourselves as onewith words we sew and spin and try so hard to shove togetherto put to paper, to place an image, on things we cannot bear alonethis humane art for connection, might be, could bemight just be, the very essence of poetry
my heart aches for something unbeknownst to me
i long for something humanely universal to touch me
and while i might have an inkling on how to say it
while i might have the artful instinct on how i can show it,
someone else has already put it to paper;
To be loved is to be changed.
To be loved means to be consumed.
sometimes, i school my face into shallow reverence
i suffer from something akin to blasphemy
whenever i think about god and i and how it all ought to be
i want to confess such sins of mine, to offer them up above
but i fear i can never put that, or myself, into proper words
no more better than when someone else said;
I need some older, wiser being to cry to.
I talk to God, but the sky is empty.
i want, i want, i want for so much
i want for so much space to express myself
i want for the whole world to know how i feel
how alive i am amidst the sea of others with me
but how can i? how could i ever sate this hunger to be seen?
when someone had already spoken for it
far better than i could’ve ever dreamed to make it?
I did crave attention, but refused to humiliate myself
by asking for it.
I am trying to make myself digestible.
I am trying to make myself easy to love.
i crave for others to feel as i feel
to see as i see
and yet still, how do i begin to compete
with what has already been written?
for so long i believed myself singular in the sentiments i longed to share
but one look in several other places and i find myself already existing
in the same plane as thousands of others before me;
You’re so polite with your sadness.
You don’t want to ruin this for anyone.
I want so much that is not here
and I do not know where to go.
i cannot find the space for my originality to take root
and i don’t know which one hurts me more—
the pain of not having the chance to say the thoughts first
or the pain of knowing these thoughts have been with us
for as long as we’ve existed in time and space
To feel anything deranges you.
To be seen feeling anything strips you naked.
yet with my bitterness of being left in the dust,
i still find myself willingly lost to the words written and immortalized
even with the ache in my chest left gaping open,
i still find myself appreciating the art form beyond my emotional capacity
and maybe that’s just how the art of poetry is meant to be understood.
References
Rainer Maria, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Ottessa Moshfegh, My Year of Rest and Relaxation
I.B. Vyache, Conversations Over Sanguinaccio Dolce
Silas Melvin, Twenty
Charles Bukowski, The Roominghouse Madrigals
Anne Carson, Red Doc>
