SARAH AND HER POETRY

It is true that sarah is a flame.

she is, she is a bundle of emotions that conflict to put forth things wonderful such as kindness and care and love, and art and poetry.

It is true that the destruction within mergers, and conjugates to give birth to beauty.

But at times, at times, when beauty is unseen, it fades.

Hold on, what if it weren't beautiful to begin with?

What if I illude my self into anything I feel daily what if I illude my self into believing my inability to relate to anyone or become comfortable or have the most trivial mundane conversations due to my beast like awkwardness that colonizes every room is sign of my superior intelligence.

What if i illude my self into thinking that my downfalls are only side effects of potential greatness.

I walk to the kitchen to make my coffe I need it, its the finals, my grades mater now, I am a senior, if I couldn't get into a great collage, I wouldnt become a scientist, and make enough money to be an artist.

I can do that, I can link the smallest actions, the smallest miniature undetectable failures with a catastrophic result, like, death of my poetry.

I wait at the kitchen, this boy that loves me so much, is getting sick of me, even though he thinks every flaw of mine falls into every need of his, and together we are something a bit out of the ordinary, but he is, getting sick of me.

Once  I snuck out of the house to meet him, and he was gentle and he was lovely.

He speaks of today, he speaks of football and friends, he speaks of authors and poets and painters, he speaks of film makers as if non of them were human beings as if they have not once existed, he speaks of them as a passing pleasure of something, some work of art that has moved him for a temporary forgotten time that isnt written in any book, and will fade into the particles of the air as if it never existed.

I live in tomorrow.

I live in the heartache of tomorrow and into perplexities, what if tomorrow is just a replica of today?

I look at these books and films and my insides battle each other.

I look at these men and women and I almost beg them for ease.

I almost beg them to teach me how to also turn my distrust into beauty.

Instead I sit and I study, because my lover, he is gone, and my poetry:

my poetry is an infant I must abort.

So I will study now, and I will get some half alright grade that will get me to a half alright collage then a half alright husband who will tolerate me, then I'l bring forth children, who will do, the very same.