Frustration

Poetry is beauty.
And the pain behind it ugly.

Though, I suppose, at some point, our monstrous thoughts overpower the elegance of the human word.
No longer is there a way to express the agony in one’s heart in a dignified way.
Words are muddied together. And the stream of thought panicked.

Poetry is supposed to be beautiful.
And the pain is supposed to be discreet.

Words are supposed to come easy. Words are supposed to flow from the mind. Words are supposed to portray my misery in an understandable way.
Not for you. For me.
I am supposed to understand my torment. I am supposed to control those feelings and have authority over the severity and manage those feelings.

Instead, I am being enslaved by mind. Enclosed by walls I don’t know how to destroy.