The title says it all. Since I've been writing my novel, I've occasionally become afflicted with the urge to write horribly self-indulgent, pretentious poetry. I wrote this in a moment of blistering sobriety as I was having a creative crisis. I couldn't think of a name for it, so I'll just call it...
Are all humans born with this capacity for pain,
or is it only the chosen few who must suffer
to create what gives meaning to the lives of the many?
I feel the pain of the entire universe grip my core,
I send my cry into the void.
Silence is the reply.
That, and the pounding of my own heart,
the percussion in a symphony of pain.
The brutality of the world seeps through my gossamer skin.
I have no natural defenses,
every cell in my body IS pain.
Those who cannot understand
would compel me to swallow hideous little white pills
whose purpose is to sanitize me into oblivion-
thirty milligrams per day of conformity.
It was Thomas who said,
“If you bring forth what is within you,
what you bring forth will save you.
If you do not bring forth what is within you,
what you do not bring forth will destroy you.”
I will bring it forth, and it will destroy me anyway.
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