Poetry.

She was constantly turning melancholy

Into poetry

Splattering the pain, that

Coursed through her veins

Onto pages of blank paper

And watching, as her pain

Wrote beautiful verses

Turning pain into an art form

Making people cry, at

How something so ugly

Could create something so beautiful

She didn’t write poetry

Poetry wrote her.


-The Girl Lost In The Bookstore

114 thoughts on “Poetry.

  1. Here’s one in return:

    Carolina Wren

    This time a solitary wren perches on
    power lines that divide purple-blue sky,
    slicing rhombi, diamonds, thin rectangles,
    pushing geometry into a regular autumn
    morning. This makes you wonder how birds
    keep their feet warm in countries with no
    power, or how people survive on a hundred
    bucks a year, or where refugees go when war
    hits. Our wren flies, a speck, ever smaller
    as she finds her way. Given our superior
    brain capacity, how is it we cause misery
    across the planet while creatures so small
    live, content to take their share peacefully?

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Pingback: Inkfelt

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