To the diseased.

I was in the 4th grade when I had accidentally opened up a portal to another world. 

And started scribbling metaphors on the back of my science book. 

Reality never struck me to be as fun as the trunks of tree that looked like lizards. 

Or the Coral Blue sky that resembled the sea. 

The world was different to me, and everything else paled in comparison

To what I had created in my mind. 

My teacher tried to warn my parents, that I was "Too creative" 

I spent more time in my imagination than I did with other kids. 

She spoke of it as an illness, and it took me years to find out... it is. 

It was me falling off my bike when I was younger and my neighbor 

looking at me apologetically because she could see the ink spilling out of my veins.

It was my parents looking sorrowfully at me as I sat in the corner at the park

Sewing together the pieces of them through lines of metaphors and similes

It was me walking up to people and saying to them "Here's my heart...

Please break it".

Because wounds served for the best poetry, and it amazed me how words

Could make beauty out of something ugly. 

I constantly set out to break things like glass

Only to turn the shards into constellations.

I fell dangerously in love with a World that only existed 

At the tip of my fingertips

Building Sandcastles next to sea, only to write about how 

The grains of sand sparkled like thousands of diamonds

As it was taken away by the tide.

Choosing to be blind, so I could see the World for how I wanted it.

I was diagnosed with the disease of being a poet and writing is the only cure. 




This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741