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A Pill: Poetry

The lines hid nothing as the eyes had the right to vomit; you wiped the blood that is counted as your tears. Those tears can scream every pain that is all written on your skin. Gracefully, they cannot even touch what you can embrace. You cannot hear your own gasps but your ears have been opened to so much, you write -- you found your pill.

Everyone is scarred; you always sing yourself to sleep while bleeding. You woke up and words are spinning at the back of your mind like a breakfast, a day-starter. You fight yourself from listening to different mouths turning as machine guns and take the pill, just as how you talk to someone who could not understand the eyes of a poet; as if you were killing your own precious time. Your eyes know when to speak and not, this generation is into too much drowning and romanticizing -- treating blindness as a sugar added in a plain water. Your eyes know more than your damages, congratulate yourself for always taking your pill.

Poetry is a pill for someone who knows how to digest one. And this is how you write; your words dance with you when misery’s taking a picture of you in monochrome. Your pill -- writing its own ode to bury what kills you.

© 2020 Sophia Amor Gorobat

Comments

John Hansen from Queensland Australia on September 26, 2020:

Yes, poetry (or writing in general) is a pill. It’s a pill I have to take every day to keep the blues at bay. Good job with this.