This free choice poem was inspired by the idea that all art forms are an addiction to the artist. This addiction is what allows them to thrive creatively and excel in their art forms, but it can also lead to them becoming a physical manifestation of the work they create. However, quitting the addiction isn’t an option for one who depends on creativity to fuel their life.
Sometimes, I think I have
more poetry inside me than blood.
Mixed into my flesh, it has made its home
deep inside my bones; It was
written into my chromosomes long before I
even learned how to breathe.
Poetry is addictive.
When it comes to love, I have been handed men
made of rose petals who wilt so much faster than
I can water them, nurture them, save them.
When it comes to breaking, I have always
shattered unevenly. Jaggedly and incompletely
and never a reflection of the purity I so desperately crave.
But when it comes to writing, I am not myself. Or
perhaps I am so much myself that I don’t recognize
her – the girl with forest fire eyes and piano key fingers.
I think I am half in love with her and half afraid.
Dance says the ocean
As my pen waltzes across the petals of the paper
Breathe whispers the moon
As I kiss the lips of my new character
Pour cries the sky
As the saltwater mixes with simile like a potion.
Here, I am in control. Here, I am powerful.
I crave it.
Every minute of every day, it is an itch I can never
truly scratch, a murmur in my ear that I don’t
want to get rid of. It sounds more like music than
any melody I’ve ever heard.
It claws at my toes with talons and scrapes
the inside of my scalp
until I submit and the blood pooling in my veins
drips onto the paper. My poetry is
written in red for a reason.
I need it.
These poems are mine and only mine –
the greatest love affair I have ever had. And like any drug,
the writing climbs inside me
past my ribs that have never been any good at protecting
my heart because there has never been enough love to protect
in the first place then
Past my vena cava until it is so deep inside me
that it brushes
against my soul.
Mind, body, soul –
I belong to the words until I become them
Submitting to every desire because the poets I adore
make them sound so beautiful
bad intentions and reckless decisions become inspiration
to use in my next piece
It’s so easy to write when you are immersed by the darkness
Lovers who are only interested in touching, taking, leaving
bring the tears I drown in
and I’ve never been good at swimming so
I use them for the art
Ms. Plath once told me that dying was an art
and like poetry, we have both learned
to do it exceptionally well.
I think she was addicted too.