I have forgotten poetry.

I’ve forgotten how to churn the very basic helix structure of my emotions into design where once I used to be able to identify each base and call its name out in clear soprano chime.

The truth, whatever that may be, has no more coherent shape in me. It changes its wings to claws and then back to wings, shifting from black to white and black again just to confuse me in knowing which side was once good.

I cannot recognize the instruments of my poetry anymore. Some yesterday ago, I would run my fingers to ease the knots and somehow the threads would fall gently to my side. But nothing falls gently anymore, and there is no allure left.

It isn’t easy to make wounds look beautiful. No one is flattered to hear that the blood staining their sheets or carpet or cheeks are the flavour of midnight roses.

We are not beautiful when we break; we are terrifying.

We pronounce the fears that keeps the night alive and wolves hiding hungry and alone.

Words were the only weapon I had against the army of my anxieties, but when you shed beauty from art, what does it become? Who is the artist left with but the unadulterated reflection of his most inner core.

It is uncomfortable

to be faced with the prescription of reality slipped under the dust under your front door in a home where the arteries are clogged and the lungs have been lined with black snakes all in an effort to escape the medication anyways.

In a home that has not felt like a home for centuries now, that was only really an hour of your time. but what other proof is there that we live forever?

in our old days and our young;

in this reckless need to create beauty out of things that are not commendable and never quite worthy,

yet always inherent to the basic nature of who we have always been, and may become.