The Ranting Stephen: The Poetry In Pain

Current mood: crushed

Ranting Stephen:The Poetry In Pain

As I sat, staring at my imperfections in the mirror, I wondered why I am this way. Why is it that I can only write poetry when I'm sad? In fact, it is not what has been written that is the essence of poetry, but the language being spoken. It is the infinite romanticism that entwines my thoughts, betwixt the sorrow and the vexation.

When the world brings me down, I find that I over dramatize its already harsh blows and make it harder on myself. i find myself using vocabulary that is uncommon even for me in my normal speech. But from whence does it spring? What causes these utterations of pure fantasy to release during these episodes of animosity towards my surroundings?

As I sat and stared at my imperfections in the mirror, I asked myself, Why do you feel like crying? Is this something worth crying over? Why don't you cry then? Why can't you cry? You sit here, alone in your room and you can't even cry in front of yourself? Why is it you choke back your tears when there is no one here to see them?
I never do get an answer.

As I stood and saw the mass of imperfections that only I could see, I realized... It's not worth it. That's why. I've been through worse. Then I see that I've lost the poetic voice in my head. The sadness is gone, the anger has passed, and the tears have dried up again. They lie in wait, for the next time I over react. But as for me... I need a book. I call myself a crybaby, then laugh, and move on with my life. Such is the Life of Stephen.
Now, as I stand in awe of the reflection of imperfection I see in the mirror I say... "Your so Vain"
I feel better now.