In the same way the moon lights up the sky when the sun is busy or how the grass sways when the wind breaks, ugliness, not beauty, creates poetry. It is molded from the fire of past loves and broken hearts, not the sweet soft voices of those who have eyes like diamonds. The cries of broken people do not get drowned out by the sound of violins. Instead, the strings break and their voices crack and the cries can be heard from miles away. Our names aren't sung in a sweet harmony over a luxurious accompaniment anymore. They are screamed over the roaring of a treacherous sea under a dark gray sky; they are screamed until the voices become ragged and are chipped away like wood.
The destruction of ourselves by the people we let love us opens the gateway to anonymous sonnets and lyrics. They hide behind the double meanings and metaphors like the grass hides behind the morning dew. Likewise, our hearts try to hide behind our broken ribs in order to be protected but still, somehow, end up needing stitches. The voice of a bar room singer fills our chest with hope and feelings that we’d rather not feel as if we had that choice. But this is why the poets must write. Not all of us have singing voices.
Poetry doesn’t hold love; love holds poetry. It grips it tight with its sharp teeth and icy breath and never ever let’s go. It is merciless and deadly and when the war heroes come back from battle, they pick up a pen and bleed some more. The fire within them never burns out; it keeps licking at their insides until nothing is left, until the skin is scarred beyond repair and sometimes the mountains call out to them for comfort. Sometimes the light never reaches the darkness and the monsters do come out to play. Sometimes we have to be reminded that humans are not snow or rain or autumn leaves. They don’t look beautiful falling down.
On the mornings the birds forget to sing and on the days the sun has to be reminded to shine, nothing ever ends poetically.