“I just want to read and write all day.”
sounds like something an artist would say.
“I despise the educational system
and I’ve just been feeling so
inspired to bleed lately”
which is to say
“I’m an emotional wreck right now
and I’m telling the world about it.”
I recently wondered about why I adore
sad, cruel, ugly poetry, but
never positive poems. I concluded that
I have ways to share my joy.
I have people to be happy with,
but I’m always alone when I’m sad.
I don’t need to relate to smiles and
I need someone to tell me that they’re
fighting monsters, too.
I don’t want to hear about your good days,
that’s all anyone ever talks about.
Just tell me I’m not going crazy when
all I can think about are these tremors.
Don’t talk to me about reaching
when we’re both seeking shelter.
George Orwell writes about purple passages.
Unnecessary but beautiful paragraphs “in which
words were used partly for the sake of their sound.”
So, when I go out with friends on Friday nights,
grab lunch with my mom,
apply to college,
I wonder if I’m doing these things
just for the sake of their sound.
Even though people who read it
can’t fully understand,
they don’t care as long as it keeps the pages turning.
Maybe, I can’t find happiness in poetry
because it just isn’t there.
And perhaps, when I can manage
a nod in agreement
these moments locked in time,
left to be remembered and
bettered by nostalgia,
will be a textbook case of
a purple passage in my life.
A purple passage in “a work
that is dull, commonplace, or