Honest

If I could

I would write novels about this black hole in my head 

about how it manages to twist every horrid thing into

poetic drops of pain.

Damn,

even that makes it seem better

But honestly

There's nothing beautiful about the way these scars healed.

About the pain of feeling again

No beauty in the way the skin benath my eyes grows bruised,

purple and green.

Certainly there's nothing sweet about your drunken texts

exceot maybe the taste of what you're drinking.

And darling, I love comparing sad songs but 

WHY

why are we still sad

after sixteen and nineteen years of the same patterns?

I wish it was poetic 

the way you still haunt my subconscious 

and how I flinch at the mention of your name;

at the sight of yours and my old friends.

I wish poetry could suture the still bleeding wounds your words left on my insides.

But no one will listen

if I just sit here and talk about how my craft lies about its

"healing properties."

So the only thing I can do 

is write my original idea:

flowery language about the perils of life

in effort to evoke some tug of emotion at my audience's chest.

Why not?