Untitled Poem #30

#30

People can’t see my pain when I make beautiful things

I wish I could make something ugly

Something that’s been tugged and tattered

Shattered and mangled from every angle

So broken and jaded they question the creator when they see what I created

So awful and tormented they ask who could have made this

Beautiful things hide the scars that were carved on my heart

The expectations of others pierce my skin like barbs of wire

These stupid fucking poems

This relentless cycle of trauma

These unending stages of grief

Can’t you see I’m fucking bleeding on these pages

If this pen is my body this ink is my blood

Spilled across stanzas made from my pain

If you say beautiful one more time I’ll go fucking insane

If you smile after one more rhyme as if delighted by my plight

I’ll turn the eyes of my pain on you and inflict a lifetime of pain in a day

I wish I could make something as heinous as the pain they gave me

Then maybe you would cry like me

Maybe you would understand this misery

Maybe you wouldn’t say this is beautiful 

Maybe instead you would grieve and ask yourself if it has to be this way