Us poets think that we have control Over words Over feelings But we do not
Us poets think that we have control
Over words
Over feelings
But we do not

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writedontfeel
writedontfeel Community member
Autoplay OFF   •   2 months ago
POETS
A beating heart that bleeds ink
And a soul that's made up of torn paper and crumpled edges

Us poets think that we have control Over words Over feelings But we do not

When the poem falls from the pen It does not always settle in the way we want it to The words will swirl And the letters will tumble And the sentences tilt and whirl and change before our eyes

When we say we understand our emotions We do not mean it That is why we spill them out over paper instead of keeping them inside

We create words out of things that are never meant to be written We create art out of something that is meant to be left as less

And sometime we hate it

People call our work beautiful And sometimes we agree

But sometimes we stare at the ink And all we can see is the darkness of our demons And the blood that we ripped from our heart because it felt like poison

We pretend that we are the writers But we are as much the ink as our words are

When we write we are the art not the artist Because if you cut us open You would find dust and pain

A beating heart that bleeds ink And a soul that's made up of torn paper and crumpled edges A mismatch of inspiration and passion and desperation

Us poets say we have control But you cannot have control over something as immense as words

Because they hold every idea in the world Every wish Every hurt Everything

You cannot survive a tsunami even if you know how to swim

And sometimes the poem crashes over us in waves before we even touch the pen to paper And we know that this time we will be writing with our own blood

Sometimes we crave it Sometimes we despise it

So we sit with our pen to paper And pretend we know what is going to spill out But we don't

Because our heart beats out a rhythm we dont exactly know And the ink swirls in patterns that we havent learnt yet and never will

And sometimes art can't be understood any better by the artist than by a stranger

Us poets think we are in control Of words Of feelings But we are not

Our poems are ink And paper And soul And unpredictability

And so are we

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