Where Does Poetry Come From

Where Does Poetry Come From

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And this. This is where it comes from. From questions like this. Feel the words turn to ink in your mouth. Coat your tongue and drip onto notebook paper. Watch the ink turn into black hole droplets, and poetry my love, comes from the universes encapsulated in that darkness.

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And then you smile. And that. That is where it comes from. It is birthed from the way the sun reflects off your teeth and eyes onto lined paper perfectly. The shadowed letters begging to be penned. Claiming they are here from the heavens and it is impossible to think otherwise.

Where does your poetry come from, you ask. And that is where it comes from. From the way every word spoken by your voice possesses a lyric like quality. A melody that sings me to sleep and wakes me gently to the sunrise. A song I cannot quite remember the words to and so I try to recall them with pen and paper and the quiet background track of your laughter set on repeat to keep me company, and jog my memory.

A softer stage of heartbreak

this stage of heartbreak is softer than i remember. which is to say i have run out of tears weeks earlier than usual. the fits of sorrow more violent this time around. sob sessions on weekend mornings missing you. fighting the urge to call. panic attacks in locked bathroom stalls because hadent you promised?

but it is over now. and the edges of my broken heart are softer. less jagged. not shattered just, broken.

i can catch your eye without having my heart skip a beat. but sometimes i think that when we lock eyes that that beat of my heart belongs to you. for only a moment. before i smile quickly, glance away.

did you know i can do that now? look away. walk away. i can walk away and not look back. have my thoughts drift away from you by the time i turn the corner...most of the time.

your voice and name do not evoke summer sautls from my stomach. instead fond memories dipped in regret and baby blue sadness.

i still wish on eyelashes for you though. but sometimes i wish for myself now too. sometimes i wish just to be happy. and sometimes when i wish this i do not even think of you.

~When beauty is in the eye of the beholder ~T.R.

And perhaps the only beautiful thing left in this life is the way a heart is broken. The way it refuses to let light pass through it peacefully any longer. Refuses to be looked past anymore. The way it fractures. Cracks. Shatters. The way it becomes a broken glass mosaic. The way the light now refrects off it and blinds every eye. Intices every hand to come closer and run fingers along its jagged and scared surface. Watch the dripping blood stain the broken heart sea glass red. See the light, enjoying every moment it dances with the shattered glass, and the shards of the heart, they learn to love it too.

~ Why people fall in love with heartbreak~ T.R.

When you notice the dozens of likes, just know that 1. Yes I have been at this a while, 2. It is your fault for writing so captivatingly, 3. I adore every thing you have written and will continue to bombard you with likes. Have a great day.

I--i'm crying? Not even joking im in the cafeteria trying to discretely dab at tears. Thank you. Holy crap. This means so much to me...honestly. Its nice to have people like my pieces but to have someone take the time to tell me or have the dedication or enjoy my work enough to come back consitantly, it means the world. Thank you. So so so much. Wow for a writer im not being very eloquent. Thank you. 💞

Kinda just wanna makeout right about now