Pruning of a Soul


United States

There's a point in life where you are bursting with emotion.

Unbridled, undignified, unidentifiable emotions.

They aren't like clouds, dissipating in the high winds after obscuring the sun.

They're like mountains, looming and glaring and unmoving.


There are options you have during that time.

Lashing out, destroying, raging, crying.

You can be a typhoon, ripping through, whipping rain, creating chaos.

Or you can be a rainshower, drizzling, rumbling, healing.


Sometimes there is too much wind, too much pressure,

and we become the typhoon.

Other times we must disperse ourselves, splay out,

and let the rain fall to the thirsty earth.


Poetry is not a thing that can be studied, understood,

for it is not just words.

It is not a cry for help, an outstretched hand,

but a soul filtering out its own poison.


A soul has poison, just like the body.

The body will cure it, or it will die.

The soul does no such thing, and has no such filter.

There is no liver for the soul, and no kidneys.


We must expel it, purge it from our souls.

We must eradicate it, or we will die. 

It is a slow death, though perhaps not of the body.

We are the rulers of our souls, we are our own gardeners,


The shears I use to cut are made of language.

Words snip off the twisted, dry, browned flowers of my soul,

for they, once beautiful, have been defeated by time.


The blood of my soul is not wasted.

It pours into my shears,

into my writing,

into you, reading this.


Poetry is not something that can be studied or understood,

for it is not just words on a page.

It is the blood of the soul,

blood that cannot be implanted into eachother.


A poem is not written for an audience, 

it is written for an author.

It is written to prune our souls of empty fruit.

It is written so that our souls may bloom once more,

more beautiful, more vibrant,

nourished by the rain we have let pour,

with roots strong enough to withstand our typhoons. 




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