I wanted to be the sad poet but I couldn’t handle it anymore
This drowning myself with my own grief
This taking every weight upon my back like it was mine to carry
Like finally crossing the finish line would amount to anything but my own demise
Making art from pain is healing
But only making art that hurts is a form of suicide
I was destroying myself for the greater good
Sacrificing my innards for the sake of art and what beauty it brings forth
But all I ever caused was the release of more pain, urging these tortured artists to keep being complicit in their own suffering.
I can’t stand by idle as my body degrades and my soul tears off a piece every day
No piece can justify my death
No lived experience is worth reliving, if it brings me to my knees and drags me closer to the ground
Where I convinced myself I belonged, amongst the insects and the roots that ground to the earth more beautiful things than me
Does any artist realize how important they are?
How humans need art, to revolve around, to live in the shadows of, to bow to and to be taught to surrender?
Does any artist allow themself to detach from their art?
To measure their self-worth in other ways, like their positive interactions with friends who don’t read their works but care about their journey.
I’ve been read by some and not read by many
I’ve been read by myself the most, by far
I’ve been torn apart and fallen back together, naturally. Like the creation and destruction of the seasons
It’s a cycle.
But I must liberate myself before my passion becomes my vice.
Before my oasis becomes my prison and my words become my weapons.
I am powerful, whether I harness this searing energy or not. I can create just by being, who I am, where I am, at this very moment and taking a step back to breathe in what I’ve made and assess if it is what I need to move forward on a path that speaks of progress
And not burying myself in a wealth of trauma,
I said poetry was my lifeblood and it very much still is
I said I give birth to poems, the only children I’ll ever have
I hung onto my own words-
And hung myself
I sacrificed myself for my children.
But poetry cannot be the end for me it is merely a place to mark my words and I can’t keep moving forward if I keep recording and re-reading the past like my obsession. I have more to offer. There’s more to hope for then turning pain into beauty.
Sometimes pain isn’t beauty.
It’s just pain.
Author: Sarah Merrifield
Author Bio: Sarah Merrifield is in her last year of college where she studies Fashion Merchandising and Spanish. She plans to pursue a career in animal rights activism post-graduation, in which she will combine her knowledge in the industry with her passion for sustainability and ethics. She is an avid traveler, reader, and yoga instructor, and has been writing poetry since she could write.
Link to website: https://laughinginloafs.wordpress.com