ugly

you want me to seal these lips from the world;

so you can rise from my silence

you call me weak

so you can stand tall on false righteousness.

I will bot be tamed to be the woman you enslave with your pious approval

beauty isn’t something foreign to my repertoire

You just shamed me into painting it ulgy

Purpose of Poetry

Poetry is putting a diaphanous veil over something unappealing, speaking regarding it just subdued enough to put into oblivion how abraded and festering and suppurate the wound is.

It’s a language of emphasizing inspiration, subjectivity – of Romanticism and painless augury, full of fanatical sentimentalism and compelling twists of the tongue.

Metaphors are hazardous travesty, using a sort of transfiguration to turn wordless sentiment into imaginable circumstances.

The way the anguish rios through yoyr body and flusters your every bones compelling you to envision misery as it pull you down to great depths and choking breaths.

The truth is, poetry is a deceiver, a fibber, an equivocator. Never fall for its exquisitely crafted stanzas causing slips into the dense fog of nostalgia.

Skeleton in the Closet

Let me tell you a secret.

It doesn’t matter how bad you think you are at something. There’s always going to be someone who loves what you create. In the same breath, it doesn’t matter how good you think you at something.

There’s always going to be someone who hates what you create. You don’t need to be everyone’s cup of tea. Everytime you pick up that pen or that brush or whatever it is, you’re improving. There’s no way for you to get worse.

So there’s no absolute point in quitting.

If you’re in it to please everyone.

You might be doing something wrong.