Poetry the Drug

Only solitude and pain, Can blend into such beautiful damage. Poetry, A stage, A crowd. I was my own creator and destroyer. I opened deep parts of myself, For strangers in dim light. The applause silenced the sound of the ever_forming cracks in my heart, The silence allowed my sorrow to have a voice. The mic painted the pictures loudly, Three rounds on stage, Three circles to run around my head. But I can write, About the beautiful girl backstage, Who used her smile as a shield from sympathy. A warm heart, Facing an avalanche. A rose, Torn apart by her own thorns. Beautiful voice, Ugly echoes. She was beautiful, She still is. Or the guy beside me. Master of language, Slave to pain. Or the other guy. Loud eyes, Silent voice. Short poem, Long story. It was just yesterday, But tomorrow drags it further away from today and it makes me sad. I hope I never get used to the feeling. I got used to depression, Now am too weak to die. If I get used to happiness, I might be too weak to smile. It's poetry, It's drugs, Am having, A freaking hangover. Elliepoet