Wherein lies my freedom to express my emotions with as much intensity as I could never find possible in reality but by poetry? How may I display tender affections without the risk of effeminacy, still proudly positioning myself as the alpha male but by poetry? Is this poetry which I constantly indulge a way of giving life to emotions I know I could never truly feel, or is it rather my escapist philosophy for the emotions which I feel but have never felt so comfortable as to express it “eye to eye” towards the inspiring figure for fear of losing my poise as a force void of the distortions of emotions?
Poetry is my soul food. It is the fortress of my thoughts. It is inspired by love; love for life, love for art and science, love for literature and of course the love for affection. Still, it finds inspiration in the sorrows of what is hoped for and yet stays unfulfilled. I even dare say that more poetry has been inspired by a constant dissatisfaction of looming desires than by the fulfillment of having that which is craved for.
Why then is poetry the key to the rusted locks and shackles of hearts of stone? Why does it do justice to broken hearts where hope feels hopelessness? Why does it keep the mind fixated on the nakedness of vulnerability, while indulging a piper’s dream? By what peculiar science of chemistry does it glue broken hearts back together, even in the face of imminent disaster?
I know so little of poetry, besides its power of therapy. I think, I write, I feel, I scribble, I validate, I note; and at the close of the day, I call it poetry. Many love I have lost, by no fault of the fair ladies, for they were mostly good, loving, passionate, kind and fair. Yet, by some Mephistophelean gift, I saw the prophesy of an end, even before the beginning. But never with poetry, for it was a world of solace, bound by my creation. It was place of endless romance, blissful from the beginning, and having no end. It was my fools’ paradise, the Utopia for a ferociously loving heart. It was my outlet, for true passion in reality always seemed to evade me by my own devise. I was always a sucker by self-destruct, letting the prime visitors of jealously, subservience, selfishness, superiority and lust eat up my meal of true love. My only savior was my poetry; my sucker outlet!
January 12 at 10:52pm
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