They say if you write beautiful words,
your mind must be a terrible place.
But I was once a beautiful boy with an innocent mind, who knew no terror about himself, I did not fear anything.
But now I do.
They called it maturity.
I call it death.
They called it penance.
I call it an apology.
They called it growth.
I call it returning to my roots.
They said if you read my mind,
you’d be in tears.
But I’d rather be the tears
that return to your eyes.
But I’d rather be your mind,
never the tears.
That is not why I write poetry.
I know that poetry is always sad,
but they say it’s always beautifully written.
Can something be sad and beautiful
at the same time?
A dying rose, yes.
A tsunami before it hits the city,
to Mother Nature, yes.
The death of a star,
to the universe, yes.
Lovers who were destined
to be separated,
to our emotions, yes.
Those things happen.
It has to.
It is life.
Sometimes we lose things we want,
but have things we don’t want.
Affection is life’s irony,
but also life’s absolute.
Intimacy can be cruel and brutal,
it can be quotes and words,
it can be poetry and songs,
but it can never be us.
And that’s what I had to learn after being with you for almost six years.
All good things must come to an end.
Your favorite smile.
Your favorite person.
It all comes crashing down
and you’ll smile at the bottom
of this blue, blue ocean
made from your red, red tears
as you sing about the lilac skies
that you once heard in a song;
and the pills will soak up your pain,
while your jeans rip with the roses.
And these walls burn down with our bridges.
It’s a one-way ticket to living life without you.
It’s my poetry, but it breathes inside of you.
And it’s terrifying, but also beautiful.
— To Have This Mind be a Terrible Place