My heart spilled out in words I could not say —
Written with blood dripped from thorns of disapproval,
On petals plucked with
Wishes, that destroyed the flower but at least —
They fell in a pleasant pattern at your feet.
Things not visible on my face —
Or maybe so if you ever thought to look,
If you ever cared to, if you ever dared to —
We could’ve written a book, a collaborative effort
To make a space for people like me.
A picture painted of love and lust and passion and mistrust —
Despite the time I imagined we spent together,
Somehow I crawled like an ant up a sand dune during a monsoon
Unrequited, though I told myself undecided —
As if I had a choice.
Emotions that I could not explain —
Obsession, compulsion, depression, despair
Laid waste to the page, my soul laid bare,
My depravity displayed, codified there —
For your condemnation.
– Written for Poets United Midweek Motif: Writing Poetry. Why Write Poetry? and/or What Is Poetry? Consider limiting yourself to addressing one poem rather than generalizing.
The poem I referenced for my response is called Depraved. It was the first poem I ever had published.
desperation tears through the veil of reason
that so valiantly fights to disguise despair.
logic retreats and fear commands acknowledgement.
fatal weakness gives the darkness rule.
reigning over trembling lies,
disease destroys the false calm
and rage releases its fury
as truth plunges deep into the soul
like the mortal blow of a poison tipped sword.
the sharp blade cuts cleanly and precisely
through thin attempts to save a dying deception.
drops of reality flow with determination
from a gaping wound.