01.07.2019

Why do people love unreachable things?
Is it the beauty of longing?
The misdirected profoundness of wanting something you can’t have?
And then writing poetry about it again and again.

My poets are often masochists
I am willing to extend my pain
As long as I make an art of it
I wanna hold you tightly in my arms

But I’ll stay just as far as I can’t touch you
I’d love to feel happy but sadness is my daily routine
Healthy diets are great and all but
I’d rather live off coffee and alcohol

Maybe I should go out of this state of misery
But it makes the artist in me feel inspiring
Someone said that they thought poetry was the fruit of love
It can be when it’s love directed to your own self-loathing

And an all-encompassing desire to out-melancholy
The famous writers who died being most unhappy
But are praised for the fruitage of their despair
Am I being honest or fair?

What’s not to love about art in the form of suffering?
Especially if it relieves our own?
Maybe we all need to drown in our sorrows
Every once in a while.

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