a mess or poetry?
Experiences worm their way into the damages I accumulate in life, where they fester, taking root in the cracks of my being. Like grains of sand trapped within an oyster, these lingering fragments of pain slowly begin to transform. Over time, they grow and evolve, each hurt and harm cultivating a pearl of sorts, a catalyst for words
As these thoughts and feelings mature, they press against the surface of my consciousness, aching to be freed. The blemishes and bruises that cover my soul are not mere marks of past trauma, but gateways through which these pent-up creations strive to escape, their egress of choice. The process is often agonizing, the pressure building until the words hemorrhage beneath my scars, desperate for release.
When the moment of their emancipation comes, it can be unpredictable. Sometimes, the result is a piece of poetry, carefully crafted and imbued with meaning, a testament to the beauty that can sprout from suffering. Other times, what emerges is a chaotic spill of raw unfiltered emotion, a painful mess that reflects the tragic journey from wound to word.
either way they bridge the chasm between me and the outside world.
As these thoughts and feelings mature, they press against the surface of my consciousness, aching to be freed. The blemishes and bruises that cover my soul are not mere marks of past trauma, but gateways through which these pent-up creations strive to escape, their egress of choice. The process is often agonizing, the pressure building until the words hemorrhage beneath my scars, desperate for release.
When the moment of their emancipation comes, it can be unpredictable. Sometimes, the result is a piece of poetry, carefully crafted and imbued with meaning, a testament to the beauty that can sprout from suffering. Other times, what emerges is a chaotic spill of raw unfiltered emotion, a painful mess that reflects the tragic journey from wound to word.
either way they bridge the chasm between me and the outside world.
31-35, M
