Poetry and I, oh we go way back. We have history.
She's been in my veins since my first kiss at 16. She's been the medication I needed for every heartbreak thereafter, and every one after that, and every one after that. She's been my only drug of choice. And frankly, at some point of time, I was probably addicted to her, but then again, she was the one who probably saved me.
She used to flow with a ferocity that scared me, with ease, with elegance, with a grace that seemed impossible to exist in a world that valued cold, hard, facts and godforsaken logic.
And now she doesn't grace me with her presence, at all.
I treated her badly, I ignored her, I didn't respect her, I was ashamed of her, even though I've never been more real or genuine with anyone else. She let me bare my soul to her, and I threw her away. Still. She left me. She needed to be somewhere she could feel wanted, respected, desired. Wouldn't you? Of course, she left me.
I broke up with poetry and now I want her back.
I was a child, I was lost, I didn't know myself, and I certainly didn't know how to value her. I don't want to make excuses, but it was never about her, and always about me. I had some serious growing up to do.
I can't shake this feeling, now. I just want her back.
Muses come knock on my door, and dance with me till 1am, and I still leave poetry at the altar and go to bed with fear instead.
I've been a mess without her, really.
Life's good, actually, but with poetry... life isn't just good, it's all shades of magic. It's butterflies. It's adrenaline. It's the closest approximation to heaven on earth.
With her, every moment is special, and every moment is one you want to box up and tie a ribbon on, or one you want to save inside a snowglobe and keep returning to every night to help you sleep better. She's the nightcap you need, you deserve. With her, every memory oozes color, brighter and more vibrant than you could dream of, and life isn't just meant to be lived, it is meant to lose yourself in, in pure moments of passion, designed and strung together beautifully that can only make sense to a poet or the insane.
Actually, with her, with poetry, life does seem a little insane. Nothing seems to make sense anymore, it is a place where logic goes to die, and is fully replaced by unadulterated beauty. It is absolute madness.
Without her, though, I've been going a different kind of mad. I've gotten into bed with apathy, and let me tell you, apathy doesn't make for a good bedfellow. Apathy is a traitor, makes you feel protected, tells you they're keeping you safe, but they're just making sure you never find happiness anywhere else. Not even with them. I've traded all my happiness for safety and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
Actually, I am sure. I feel utterly horrid. I want the rush back. I want poetry back.
Without her, life has lost all flavor, and I feel like I'm a prisoner of my own making.
Do you think she'll take me back? I have never been more sincere in my efforts to win someone back. But I am truly sorry I didn't see her worth before. This is my love letter to her. The softest, sweetest, most honest thing I've ever written, hand on my heart.
If she ever comes back, I promise I will carry her in my arms and show her off to the world. With her by my side, I find courage to be more myself, than ever before. She lets me see the real me. And she accepts the real me. And she finds that beautiful. And, I her.
If she ever comes back...
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