The Pain of Artistry

I break my bones and scar my skin, persistently flowing with red rivers, flowing into oceans of pain.

Veins round like wells where my tears collect.

My eyes vexed and I cry my self to sleep.

Yet sleep is what I cannot do.

Dryness on my cheek is what I never knew. 

For this wetness on my cheek is a stain of insomnia.

Tossing and turning like the salad of my vegetative state. If only I ate less of what was on my plate.

Too concerned about my weight, overemphasizing my oversized everythings.

My big arms against my big chest.

Crying silent screams and seeing who in the house has bionic hearing was the test that nobody ever past. 

But neither do I because the voices are too loud and I'm too proud to ask for help

The decibels of depressions growing louder and louder.

Causing a ripple in my pain.

Rivulets of struggle like rhythmic gymnastic ribbons.

Ribbons, so colorful and free. They teach us sad folks that we can paint with our pain and turn our sorrows into rainbow. That we can make quilts by stitching up the seams of our scars. That our screams are music that make others feel. That while our notes are not in harmony, no two are alike but yet they some how by the grace of our Creator, create beautiful dissonance and though they are silent can be heard from great distances. Starting now, I will wear my pain on each tooth and when they fall out after my youth, all the pain will be gone, and I can sing an audible song for which no one has to explain the meaning of the lyrics. 

They will just hear it and they will know that pain has made such beautiful rainbows.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

the aspect

I love the line "That our screams our music that make others feel."

Just lovely, it says what I can not in my own poetry.

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