Poetic Cauldron
Listen—
There’s a cauldron bubbling in the basement of my soul,
black as midnight, black like my melanin blacker than coal.
where syllables melt into molten gold.
into this cauldron I throw:
fragments of overheard conversations
on subway platforms at 2 AM,
the way light fractures through
broken storefront windows,
Steam rises the ghosts of every poem
I’ve swallowed instead of spoken,
every truth I’ve buried
beneath polite small talk
and careful smiles.
The heat is unbearable sometimes.
This alchemy of anguish threatens to crack me open,
spill my insides across the page
like an accident scene
Most magnificent and terrible.
But I keep stirring,
because somebody has to
transform the materials
of this messy, magnificent life
into something that might
make another soul feel
less alone in the dark.
against a world that tells us
our voices don’t matter,
from a fermented fabrication
Of societal freedom.
The recipe is ancient:
one part rage at injustice,
When the brew is ready,
it glows from within, open hearts,
serve it steaming
to anyone brave enough
to drink poetry
straight, no chaser.
This is my offering:
words that have been boiled down
to their essential truth,
distilled to their purest power,
ready to burn clean
through the pretense
and kindle something wild
in the chest of anyone
who’s forgotten
they have fire inside them.
So come Bring your broken pieces,
your beautiful disasters,
your questions with no answers.
Let’s make magic
from the mess of being human.
Let’s remember:
we are all poets
waiting to explode
into meaning.
Let’s brew rebellion
in a world that craves conformity.
For, steam still rises.
The cauldron of words keep coming,
Poetry hungry and alive,
demanding to be born.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment