I read somewhere that you can’t write good poetry unless your heart is fragmented, wrung like a wet towel: twisted and desperate. Only then can you create pretty words that actually mean something. As a little girl, you wrote of radiant flowers; of golden horizons awaiting a king and queen’s happy ending. Beautiful tuneless melodies that left you just the same as before. Then you got older. You met a monster that more so resembled an angel. Gentle touch and soft lips so deceptive that you could not even begin to fathom his true form. Without warning, your heart was left devoured and you were left bloody with no recollection of the person you were. With a heart haphazardly stitched to be not much more than functional and a mind running around with red ink labeling nostalgic evidence HOW DID YOU NOT SEE THIS COMING, you rid yourself of all traces of him until you’re so exhausted you only have enough energy to write about it. Thus marks the end of your days of neutral omniscience, as you change the focus of your poetry. You construct a hauntingly passionate tale of romance, devotion, deceit and betrayal complete with vivid metaphors and iambic pentameter. It is the element of truth that makes a poem worth reading. And maybe such a statement has been told because trauma rejects the bubbly cushion. It leaves you with solid reality. Real world happenings. Fairy tale endings aside.
I’d give anything to write about flowers and castles again.