Tuesday, 19 May 2015

Poem || Papercuts

Choosing to become a writer was the stupidest thing I've ever done.
A singer can allow the world a sneak peak into their life
Without making too much of a mess.
And the sad little girl who plays the piano
Can seduce the world into her sadness
Without even telling them the reason behind
      Or why she doesn't delve for a cure.

But me?
I chose to become a writer
And when I offer the world my past
It's a party.
And there are red plastic cups everywhere
Alcohol on the floor,
I use it to purify my wounds 
From the paper cuts because
I chose to become a writer
      And paper is patently our worst enemy

Choosing to become a writer
Is like choosing to commit suicide
With childproof scissors.
And you keep trying
In front of the whole world.
But they're laughing because
Somewhere along the way, you
managed to find a way to make mockery of your tears.
You managed to show people the brighter side of
A not-so-pretty-picture
And how flabbergasted would they be
To find out they're been laughing
At puns that have memories of deaths
Stitched to their edges.
They're been drinking at a party
            That was intended for a funeral.

Choosing to become a writer
Is like telling the world your secrets,
and hoping they don't connect the dots
It's like spreading your fractured wings
And wishing for the best
It's like 3AM heartbreaks that are
encased in rhyming words
And cheesy jokes
It's like saying you've never been so happy
And writing a poem like this.
        that's another paper cut.

It's almost like you're lying to yourself.
                 But maybe you are happy.

But writing was never a choice.
Writing is a jail masked as a safe haven.
With all the loonies in the world,
selling bestselling books about
Love lives they could have had
Marriages they could have saved
           Paper cuts they could have avoided.

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