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The Healer
My poems were once cryptic, not for any rhyme or reason.
My emotions and my passion were merely a by-product of the seasons.
Where bitterness was July’s attachment and apathy was August’s friend,
I saw myself only in my painting’s borders as I longed for life and its strokes to end.
Writing was my creative outlet, drawing wasn’t quite my thing.
I couldn’t knit, I couldn’t sew, and lord knows that I couldn’t sing.
In poetry, my subjects didn’t stray from ‘her’, or ‘him, or ‘they’,
saying ‘me’ was something that I didn’t have the nerve to say.
In a sonnet I once wrote, my subjects pain was rooted yet intangible.
I called her ‘Alexandra’ as if my grieving was transplantable.
And all through life I never saw the way the story really goes,
Until you realise that you’re worthy of a poem, the healing never really shows.
Art is about the things we love most. It took me ten sonnets and a broken heart to see.
I’ve healed now and when I write poetry, I write it about me.
© Jodes.D
My emotions and my passion were merely a by-product of the seasons.
Where bitterness was July’s attachment and apathy was August’s friend,
I saw myself only in my painting’s borders as I longed for life and its strokes to end.
Writing was my creative outlet, drawing wasn’t quite my thing.
I couldn’t knit, I couldn’t sew, and lord knows that I couldn’t sing.
In poetry, my subjects didn’t stray from ‘her’, or ‘him, or ‘they’,
saying ‘me’ was something that I didn’t have the nerve to say.
In a sonnet I once wrote, my subjects pain was rooted yet intangible.
I called her ‘Alexandra’ as if my grieving was transplantable.
And all through life I never saw the way the story really goes,
Until you realise that you’re worthy of a poem, the healing never really shows.
Art is about the things we love most. It took me ten sonnets and a broken heart to see.
I’ve healed now and when I write poetry, I write it about me.
© Jodes.D
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