A Poet’s Lament; Or Perhaps A Tribute To His Artistry

Blades have torn the fabric of his mind,
Have cut his skin and left blood pouring,
But he doesn’t wallow over his misery,
Doesn’t turn to substances to numb pain,
Doesn’t smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol,
Doesn’t bottle up his emotions to the world–

He scratches and scrapes his wounds
Keeping the scarlet blood vibrant with life
He lets his tears cascade like heavy raindrops
Watering the grass, evergreens, and roses
That blossom in an olive spring of healing
He mixes old memories into this potion–

–This potion from which he dips his pen into
And writes cherished poetry of what his tragedy has come to

 

rishi_jraman256

NC

15 years old

More by rishi_jraman256

  • forsythia

    and tetrad petals are words—
    written on my branches,
    poetry i write on rainy days
        each burst of amber blossom,
        a sad metaphor—
    flowers break when i hear
    “you used to be so talented”
  • comatose

    set fire to the 
    redwoods of my mind
    let copper ribbons 
    taper into nothingness,
    bury the forest’s 
    bones into earth-sunken, 
    sacred ground—
    they say tears are
    catharsis,