I’ve noticed that my mind and soul only allow me to write when I’m sad, never when I’m happy, never when I’m genuinely filled with a room of people I love. The words flow like juices, like the punch bowl in the middle of the crowded room of fake laughs - only when I am unhappy with my life, sadder than ever before, only when I feel my heartstrings tugging for a last breath. When I’m happy I feel things that are the complete opposite of a blank piece of paper. My hands shake because I am dancing, and there is absolutely no way I am about to be able to scribble down words that I so call “poetry.”
Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I could forever be dancing and not be able to write down words - but I am also forever in love with the feeling of sadness that bring me to my own senses through words. I forever will crave a certain sadness, like the way you torture yourself by watching a tragedy through your television. There’s something that calls me back every time, and a part of me never wants to be free from this.