Ame damnee
-
Being born an angel
With wings that shimmer;
Choiceless.
You will be good,
They will cheer for you.
I took fire to my innocence,
Stood before them with scars
And rage.
"Too loud." They'd fuss,
"Opinionated. Bossy. Bitch."
My body would tremble with the reminder
Of what I was born to be.
Beautiful and quiet.
You came along, and I spoke evenly.
Directly.
And stars filled your eyes,
You reached for me with hunger.
"An angel?!" You cooed,
"You're so brave!"
But what about my wings and beauty?
What about the light?
You cheered for me in the darkness,
Without the promise of my blessing,
Awed by the conviction
I was cast out of Heaven for.
Brave.
I'd never heard that before.
The glow I was born with,
Seemed to crack within me.
Twisting and branching into something new.
We laughed together,
And though I was told they'd cheer for me-
I cheered for you.
I cheered for you.
x
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The greatest novelists were artless people
Words being wheat and them the reaper
Igniting them on fire to suffice their infamous inner desire
Finding meaning in nonsense only causes me to tire
The great novelists were limitless people
Says the reciter, claiming the words to go much deeper
Scowling after being called out
For probing says can't help that he is a dreamer
The great novelists weaved forlorn tapestries
Like Arachne, they got cursed
To live a small pitiful life losing their own sanity, catastrophically
The great novelists were powerful soldiers
Searing your heart apart with their unsheathed swords
Words they wrote, cut throats
The great novelists were sad people
The fantasies they used metaphorically
Writing about themselves in deep imagery
And if the protagonist unalived themselves
You know what would happen to them
The greatest novelists were cursed people
Who could see every perspective that met the human eyes
Nothing to be left in disguise
They wrote about what made them merry
And what caused their sad demise
A piece of literature isn't always about what the writer writes, but what the reader understands. This poem is about a person who doesn't think much about writers except that they are talentless lost souls finally finding his tunes in a novel. Finally understanding the writer.
This is a transition poem, a person transitioning his views upon literature. It also tells us how if you dive deep into a topic then only you would be able to unfold it otherwise you would just think ill of the folk who do.
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From journal of 8 March, 2024
This little life of yours is your very own canvas. And everything you do in life is your art. The way you make your coffee, the way you dress, the way you smile, the way you speak, the way you pray, the way you love. Thoughts you get when you look at the sky, poems you write, stories that you are to tell, pictures you click, from embracing the gentle breeze to listening the whispers of raindrops it's all unique in itself. No one does it like you. And art is supposed to differ. So, you can't compare your canvas with someone else's canvas wondering why their art is different from yours and if yours is as pretty as theirs or not.
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To be or to not-
The day old question of a turning century
"Do we consume the poetry, or does the poetry consume us?"
I suppose in my theroy
If you are more of a reader, you consume it
Gluttonous to the detriment of our curiosity
If you are a writer though..
It consumes you.
Swallows every aspect of your passions
Lusting for the very burn your soul waters for
Desire wouldn't be a big enough plate
You'd eat the table just to be descriptive
Just to put eyes, minds, feelings, exactly where we were
Writing, producing, directing your very own image
To bring the Frankenstein of creativity to life
How much power black and white symbols become
Words don't hurt for those who have never enjoyed poetry
It's impossible to feel nothing and write
Even nothing is felt across blank pages
Even silence screams an echo dogs can hear
So to let it burn or be burned
I guess would be the cost of our desires
And you know what they say
Everything comes at a price
Are you willing to pay without paper fallacy
Illusions of monetary value while you waste time
All for the question at hand
To not be a consequence of something so sublime
12/09/23
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