Why and other monosyllabic nightmares

Another half-day of mindless scrolling
Another half-day of unfocused rumination
Another half-day of tired naps later,
I find myself pleading guilty
in the court of productivity and optimisation
And so I dig into that bottomless sack of writing prompts I possess:
My life.

But what do I do now?
Now that I've exhausted all those metaphors
that never could convey anything concrete anyway;
I think about writing a poem about the Ice Queen
and not-so-subtly projecting on to her,
I think about how I'm past the stages
of romanticising, and of not romanticising,
I think about all the poems I could write—
Redundant, already crumpled and thrown in my paper-shredder mind.

I dip my paintbrush in my blood
And draw sigils on the floor sacrificing
my body to sadness for poetry,
Adorn the altar of insanity
With the icy tinsel of my frozen tears,
Cover the pebble made of scream stuck in my throat 
with colourful paint, tack some sequins on it
Call it art, present to you
to use as a paperweight.

Here, inside the fortress built of enamel ribs
I put a suction needle in my heart
here, inside the safety of the exhibition gallery 
I have the luxury to air censored content—
if it can be called a luxury, that is. 

I turn myself inside out, like a coat pocket
Shake all the lint and dirt out on paper
in the hope of being restored to my natural pocket-state
(whatever that may be)
But as anyone who's ever turned anything inside-out knows,
you can never quite get rid of it all.

I am not a Gryffindor, my art
is a blanket woven out of cowardly moments
Dyed out of silent vessels filled with nothing and everything
Embroidered with the words 'Passive Deathwish'
as if they mean anything to anyone but me;
My art is this cozy blanket
I'm getting too comfortable in.

My art is the rug I hastily threw over
the mess on the floor before you came in—
Creation concealing destruction—
You knocked,
'Come in,' I said,
You said the rug was so pretty, you wish you'd made it
You left but you didn't know
that the rug's fused to the floor.

is all we have between us:
So much yet so little,
so rich yet so lacking,
Its inventions can heal 
anyone but its own inventor
Or they can spread, contagious,
like the virus I feel, treading borders
too much to count—
Until every work becomes so unique,
uniqueness doesn't exist anymore.
Only loneliness in a crowd. 

Beauty, you see, is only what art presents—
pain is not poetic, nor sorrow edgy—
For all its pure and noble ambitions,
art has an ulterior motive: attention, validation, appreciation
Why else cut yourself in half and indulge the world
in this sensational magic trick?
All the artist wants
is to be seen.

To be seen, to be heard, to be felt, 
Yet I do not want your sympathy
I have no desire for your admiration
for you only see the creation, maybe the preservation,
But not the destruction that lies behind
the bodies burnt in the plague before the renaissance;

You see the rug and not the mess
neither do you want to, and I understand—
Well, what do I want then?
Don't you see? I don't have a clue.
How could I?
How else could this poem exist?

Image by: Aiko Uchiha on We Heart It

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