you ask me why i write sad poems. no one reads it anymore. you tend to spit my words and vomit the poems as they don’t sound happy because you never understand the depth of the sentences.
the poems i write resemble you so you tell me not to write sadness in disguise of a poem, but to write about the love in the books, bright and happy as a bee on a rose garden. it suffocates me.
my poems are my way to escape; the reality; from the garden with flowers apparently bright and beautiful because i can’t imagine a garden being the same forever if all it gets is salted tears and weary smiles. i can’t bloom, my body tastes like salt.
i kept my letters in the glass bottles and threw them in the sea with your destination on it. but you crushed the poems and tore the pages thinking they were resembling you and you were not ready to look at a mirror with someone else’s perspective.
the next time you touch my body, remember it tastes like salt because i’ve been wearing the ocean all day, sinking many recked ships, and broken bottles inside me, the sadness in my poems is my happiness, i can breathe while i write and if you don’t hear my breath, it’s because i can’t breath near you. your existence suffocates me.
I’m sorry. I write sad poems.