The Truth About Poetry

The thing about poetry, is that most people often associate it with depression/sadness/breakups. I think there are a few reasons for this, however, what I really want to get at is that a lot of people write poetry on these things because the feelings evoked are so acute.
Last night when I was pondering the meaning of life (yeah, I'm weird like that) I came up with this image in my mind of negative emotions being irregular, sharp, and crude shapes. When we feel it with our hands, it's easy to pick out the depth and sting of our emotions. Its very nature is raw and jagged, giving us splinters in our mind and soul that are all too easy to feel. In a way, writing about negative emotions is much easier than writing about positive emotions. With sadness, we remember it longer. It's asymmetrical, odd, peculiar. It begs to be noticed and felt, whereas positive emotion does the exact opposite.
I like to think of happiness as being round and smooth; giving way to nothing irregular or discomforting. It's very nature in that sense, gives a writer very little to hold on to or become 'caught' on. It's warm, and comforting. It smooths away turmoil and everything that punctures our thoughts. It simply glows, with an aura lacking uncomfortable keenness. I don't mean to suggest positive emotions are not intense, they are. What I do mean to suggest is that unlike sadness, which gives us a clear template of feeling to work with, happiness is much harder to write about. In a way, it simply is. What words would be sufficient to describe that?

In this way, I can only think that those who write such beautiful prose on happiness are more skilled than poets who only take to the pen in times of extreme duress. While both those who write negative and positive poetry both contribute beauty, those who write on happiness take a concept with so little obvious clues as to where to start or how to proceed, and weave elegance from a circle that never ends.

I think, I want to be able to write like that too.

Death of the Sun

Our thoughts bleed like rain,

madness ensues; from the death of the sun.

We are born in fire---crystallized in the memory of a broken world,

the valves of our hearts, pump sand through our veins.

Nothing matters.

There is no feeling.

Silence.

Stop this burning silence,

...

I'm scraped raw by the absence of you.

In your death,

I am nothing.

...

Or,

has it always

been this way?

Our Love

Shackles of the Gardian

Art via pinterest.

Fingers dripping with the dew of an unshattered sky; crimson blossoms from the darkness hollowing his chest, darkening his pallor unevenly. Marbled lips part, an exhale of blackened smoke clouds the air, casting his features in obscurity.
   A wolf, she told me long ago. He's a wolf in sheep's clothing. I knew she was right, yet in blindness, I smashed the mirrors lining my haven so I couldn't see. So that with time I could forget those memories, and simmer in the heat from what I felt within.
   He haunts me now. In my dreams; in the newly erected mirrors I've set within my marble palace. Vapors from his past still linger, the dark fumes which escaped his lips, pressing slowly into me; like a drug. Slowing my heartbeat, and sickening my mind.
   He's here, all around me. I feel it in the walls, I see it in the imprints left between the roses silently dripping from the balustrade like ruby blood.
   My haven is not a home; it is a tomb.
   His tomb; and I the guardian.

Memories

Him

To Bright To Touch

Alice Is Breathing

Blinded

Unknown

Born Again

Uprising

   *Update
So, I've had quite a few questions about the meaning of this poem from various readers. I decided this morning that I would just clear it all up with a explanation of what I was thinking of when I wrote this. The nice thing about poetry however, is that it doesn't always have to mean the same thing to everyone. So if you thought it had a different meaning, then don't let my explanation deter your own conclusion.
   To start with, the poem is really set more on an emotional level than a literal one. In the first verse the speaker states,
"it's through your eyes, 
that I unveil the monster."
Perhaps the speaker's doubts are fed to her through the man in question? Hence, when she looks into his eyes, she sees what she most hates within herself.

   The next two verses depict a ruined city, which is actually a deeper perspective into the man's eyes. We see that the speaker is not the man's only victim,
"a war ground splayed in corpses,
all piled around your feet."
This begs us to ask the question, what war are we fighting then? Perhaps one of courage and fear, or love and hatred. As we see from the following lines, both subjects have fallen from the stars. We can either assume they are fallen angels, or that both have descended from humanity. In essence, both of them represent different emotions. The speaker, love; and the man, hate.
"My hand reaching for yours,
then falling back beside my waist."

   The war between the two escalates within verse six. Not only now is the war between the two injuring those around them, but the speaker is beginning to realize that the man's hold over her heart, is beginning to tear their worlds apart.

In the second to last verse the line,
"and rivers made of our tears,"
is a very crucial part of the poem. It shows that despite all the hardship and pain the two have waded through, their tears will now be the only reminder of each other. The speaker has made the decision to have courage, which will leave all of this behind as only a memory.

The last line finishes this idea off with,
"we will become something more than our fears."
This is a goodbye. A final battle cry before the white flag is waved, and they go their separate ways. The speaker is leaving her self hatred, which has become everything the man stands for to her. She has decided to leave the war of hate, and have courage to love herself.

If Words Held Power...

   So, I'm trying something a little different this year with my poetry. If it turns out to be a fail, then I'll just go back to how I used to post them, but I thought I might as well give it a try. Thanks for all of your support guys! I've been going back in my replies feed and realizing how many of your comments I hadn't seen due to some technical errors. I think now I've replied to most of them, and now that It's fixed it shouldn't be a problem again. Hope you all have a good weekend!

New Years

Our souls-

are like paper.

Coated in lines of scrawling black ink.

Dark words.

Beautiful words.

Heartbreaking words.

The never ending scratches of ink,

against the parchment lining our bodies,

bleed together into shapes and pictures.

We find ourselves defined by them,

bound to them,

enraptured.

Until one day-

we decided to rip them off,

to melt away the persona which blossomed

into our beating hearts.

We tossed those words, 

into the thickening flames,

dressed all in white,

we watched them smoldered away.

When oozing gold,

began to gush

we turned ourselves

into something-

we fought

to become.

It wasn't a day that defined the blank parchment,

born from the ashes.

It was a choice,

A decision

to become something new.

Despite how deep the ink had stained us,

despite how old the scars had been

etched into our souls.

We chose,

to let it go,

and accept that-

who we were

is nothing more than who we used to be.

Because a decision,

can set you free.