You don't write a poem. You be it. You live it. You sacrifice everything for those few words of unbreakable truth.
You walk through the fiery lines, and by the end, your knees are scraped, your hands are bloodied, your cheeks are stained with inky tears, your heart is raw, peeled into pieces and you aren't remotely the same.
Poetry is not for bullshitting safe truth.
It is the most dangerous thing in the world---it teaches us how to be alive.
To feel. To crack open. To grow a goddamn spine. To say all those things we swore we were too scared to say.
Poetry is art, yes, but it's fire. A sacred fire strung of our hearts, a fire beaded with life so pure it splits our souls wide open and spills them out onto the street for the entire world to see.
It punches into our guts in the most obscenely beautiful way.
And then it's just us. And nakedness. And truth.
There is nowhere to hide.
Poetry exposes us, it rips away our cozy clothes and snatches up our security blankets.
An then it's just us. And nakedness. And truth.
Poetry will lead you exactly where you're afraid to go, the darkest, most grotesque parts of your being.
And you will cry and you will sob, but you find gems there, in that glorious darkness.
Poetry is not safe. It's not supposed to be.
It's magic. It's words encased in alchemized spells.
It's gritty, it's slimy, it's fierce and sweet---and it will burn your throat like moonshine and it will slap you awake.
Poetry is the wild pulse of everything we've never let ourselves feel.
It is sweat and rage and humiliation and love gone wrong and hope and blazing hot passion and blistering sadness and the deepest blues of loneliness.
Poetry is the most dangerous thing in the world---it strips us of our pretty delusions, rids us of our zombie-eyed opiate-laced complacency, and makes us come alive in the form of blooming tears on our cheeks.
Poetry hurts so good,
Drink it up, swallow it whole,
Because it pushes us into a heap of throbbing honesty,
Because it slaps us awake and faces us to open our scared eyes
And be so fucking humbled
As it passes through the palms of our hands.
Is there anything more deliciously dangerous than being completely present in this fucking beautiful, messy life?