Poetry is honest.
Poetry is vulnerable.
Poetry is pouring out what’s stored in the inner labyrinth of the soul.
*
Indifference
It’s easy to speak plainly
Only sometimes you can’t
Now how do you say
What’s eating your inside
While you know
Not many will understand.
You say the words
And leave
To deal with it alone
Hurt
Blaming yourself likely
And the world just turns and turns
With a blind eye
With indifference.
***
The cauldron
What if I just opened up a page
Made it dirty, dark.
Messy. On purpose.
What if I said what was on my mind
I did. It didn’t get me praise
But it didn’t phase me -
It felt good to put down the words.
It’s lonely.
The need is boiling like poison in a cauldron
Before it spills over and burns everything.
And life is rolling by like it doesn’t care
- It doesn’t. It never did. It seems. -
I sit in my room, crossed legged.
Nobody needs to know what it means
(Only my paper and pen)
If I am lying or if I am trying to cast a spell
Make a difference
(…)
The page is full. It’s now tame.
No storm is in the cauldron
No poison spilling out from this witch’s pen.
