Poetry's Heavenly Hell
I have the mind of a poet.
I've lost the ability to see in actuality;
to think plain thoughts.
My mind has been rewritten by Shakespeare,
now, only capable of producing stuttering prose;
shoddy rhymes and incomprehensible stanzas emerge.
What can I say?
Poetry is Bae.
She has grasped my mind,
encapsulated my thoughts.
She's molded them into tiny rivulets of
They slip through the ever-widening cracks of my psyche,
cementing them together,
presenting a unified illusion of normalcy to all.
Words elude my description of this psuedo-psychedelic trance.
A veritable goldmine of thoughts to chose from,
I may as well try to catch oil in a wicker basket . . .
They are there!
Beautifully composed lines!
Stanzas more beautiful than the Heavens!
river flows . . .
a psuedonitic Styx.
Filled with my discarded lines,
A piece of me.
I'm rambling, aren't I?
My thought process is tangled.
Oh the curse of being Poetry's bitch.
She lured me in with sweet words and delightful phrases.
With sugary lips and those idyllic visions of the abstract.
Oh what a drug she is!
shy and enthralling.
Then she thrusts you headfirst into the rabbithole of
She's got us hooked.
You want to be free,
but yet you don't.
You can't imagine going a day without her
sweet nothings being whispered in your ear,
without her soft, lingering touches
guiding you through the day.
I dare say we are all caught by that wanton wretch called
We don't really care.
I mean, why should we?
Truth is an illusion,
Love is a mirage.
Both simply tools she uses to ensnare us,
her willing victims.
I've seen the parasitic web she's weaved.
It twists through reality,
fed by our feelings,
throbbing with our emotions.
We'll never be mundane.
We'll search underneath the underneath,
always half-drunken in poetic bliss.
Each moment of emotion that compels us to write only pulls us in deeper,
furthering our addiction.
Is it a blessing or a curse?
I have no idea.
Yet, I say,
Embrace me Poetry,
Pull me into your Heavenly Hell.
I am yours,