People often ask me,
the reason for my despondency,
why I write the way I write,
why my poems border
on sadness or depression,
why I am aloof and sad,
why I prefer solitude,
questions, millions of questions,
to which I am finding answers.
Ma read my latest poem
and asked me if I was sad,
I didn't reply,
just screamed silently.
The fire within me blazing,
tearing my insides to shreds,
burning my gut,
scorching my heart,
incessantly burning.
When I'm lying down at night,
the shadows and light superimpose
to make a painting on the wall,
I stare at this hypnotic beauty,
but when sleep is a wink away,
I suddenly wake up.
It's the fire within me,
always the same fire
neither lets me live,
nor die.
A thought strikes me,
an idea.
A word that
inspires a sentence,
that in turn ebb and flow
into a poem.
And I forget about sleep,
the wall painting,
and my sadness.
I'm alive suddenly,
the life within me surging,
my soul embracing the heat,
singing and dancing
to mute music.
I hold the pen tightly,
for that's my life,
these words that I write
are what makes me.
These words are what
brings upon emotions,
what makes me feel pain.
I find pain better,
I choose pain,
it's something,
better than numb.
So let me be,
let me write abstract poems,
and live in my depression,
let me be aloof and sad,
let me watch the ground as I walk,
let me shy away from people,
let me write the way I write,
let me stare at shadows for inspiration.
I do it not for you,
but for me,
to feel alive,
to feel the burn of the fire,
so that I can smile
through the haze of pain,
a sad smile,
but a smile regardless.
