Pain & Poetry

Two things are guaranteed in life:
Pain and poetry
In his brightest hour every lover becomes a poet
Until he realizes he loves too much
Then, in his darkest hour, every poem encapsulates his trauma

He is a worm that becomes the cocoon
Silent, solitary and alone
Until the day he finally understands:
It’s not the butterfly that is admired
But the growth that got him there

The butterfly dies, but the cocoon is the treasure of beauty
It it his growth that he strives for, not the prize he receives
His prize is the death of his growth
A payoff for his labor
The pain he once felt, what he thought he despised,
That was his true prize

So it is with us, we strive for ease, not knowing that pain is what we truly need
The pain of growth
The pain of the cocoon