deepundergroundpoetry.com
Beauty From Pain
I thought it was over.
Like I always do.
White flags were ready to stand.
The towel was ready to be thrown in.
Time to give up.
Time to give in.
This story is one that was once shared.
Now it is mine to hold.
I've taken my characters (and than some)
and I made a new story unfold.
But it still hurts when I think it's not enough.
Or maybe it's too much.
I want to call it quits.
Give up & give in.
Let my dearly departed co-author claim victory in this game.
I know that she has not touch paper nor pen.
Nor quil or parchment has she disgraced.
With words of meaningless babbble, shame and rape.
Lots and lots of rape.
Every character in the old story may have actually gotten raped.
It's not needed.
It's disgusting.
Wrong--
Overrated--
Distasteful--
And foul--
But every time I think about giving in.
Giving up on these characters.
On their words.
I know that she will be smiling.
She's still waiting in the darkness.
Waiting for me to stumble, to trip, to fall--
Waiting for me to give up so she may smile with pride.
At having won.
We've been over for two years.
And I'm still fighting against her
tooth and nail, to the very end.
I just can't-- I can't let her win.
So I focus on the last chapter.
And switch it to the other character's side.
How that person felt, while we saw it through her counterpart's eyes.
And it came to me.
The idea seeped out of my pain.
Draining that need for blood red crimson I wanted to pour.
And brought life to a fresh idea.
Breathed life into a cold dead thing.
Brought my story back from it's icey grave.
87 chapters--
Now 88, 89--
I'm back with more of my masterpiece.
More words to write.
More fight still in me.
Self-hatred turns to inspiration.
Give my characters my emotions.
"Why can't I do better?" turns to "Why can't I be more like her?"
"Why can't I do this?" turns to "Why did I do this?"
And in the end.
I will remain.
Tears have been shead by characters and myself alike.
And it's over--
The chapters are written.
The arguements are dead.
The candle's been blow out.
And I am alone, still standing.
In the middle of a war zone.
A battle still forging on.
And I made a masterpiece.
I gave myself hope when there was none left to give.
And in the end.
There was beauty from pain.
And that is the task of the true artist.
To take the depression and make it into a mania.
To take the bad and make it into something good.
To take the pain, the suffering, the razors.
And turn them in beautiful, lyrical, whimsical chapters.
Words.
Stories.
Destiny.
Reason.
And in the end.
I still stand, still remain.
And there was beauty--
Beauty from my pain.
Like I always do.
White flags were ready to stand.
The towel was ready to be thrown in.
Time to give up.
Time to give in.
This story is one that was once shared.
Now it is mine to hold.
I've taken my characters (and than some)
and I made a new story unfold.
But it still hurts when I think it's not enough.
Or maybe it's too much.
I want to call it quits.
Give up & give in.
Let my dearly departed co-author claim victory in this game.
I know that she has not touch paper nor pen.
Nor quil or parchment has she disgraced.
With words of meaningless babbble, shame and rape.
Lots and lots of rape.
Every character in the old story may have actually gotten raped.
It's not needed.
It's disgusting.
Wrong--
Overrated--
Distasteful--
And foul--
But every time I think about giving in.
Giving up on these characters.
On their words.
I know that she will be smiling.
She's still waiting in the darkness.
Waiting for me to stumble, to trip, to fall--
Waiting for me to give up so she may smile with pride.
At having won.
We've been over for two years.
And I'm still fighting against her
tooth and nail, to the very end.
I just can't-- I can't let her win.
So I focus on the last chapter.
And switch it to the other character's side.
How that person felt, while we saw it through her counterpart's eyes.
And it came to me.
The idea seeped out of my pain.
Draining that need for blood red crimson I wanted to pour.
And brought life to a fresh idea.
Breathed life into a cold dead thing.
Brought my story back from it's icey grave.
87 chapters--
Now 88, 89--
I'm back with more of my masterpiece.
More words to write.
More fight still in me.
Self-hatred turns to inspiration.
Give my characters my emotions.
"Why can't I do better?" turns to "Why can't I be more like her?"
"Why can't I do this?" turns to "Why did I do this?"
And in the end.
I will remain.
Tears have been shead by characters and myself alike.
And it's over--
The chapters are written.
The arguements are dead.
The candle's been blow out.
And I am alone, still standing.
In the middle of a war zone.
A battle still forging on.
And I made a masterpiece.
I gave myself hope when there was none left to give.
And in the end.
There was beauty from pain.
And that is the task of the true artist.
To take the depression and make it into a mania.
To take the bad and make it into something good.
To take the pain, the suffering, the razors.
And turn them in beautiful, lyrical, whimsical chapters.
Words.
Stories.
Destiny.
Reason.
And in the end.
I still stand, still remain.
And there was beauty--
Beauty from my pain.
Published 17th Dec 2013
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