Inconsequential Mutterings.

why is it that in pain i
can write freely and beautifully
the words that threaten my life?
its existence contradicts the
happiness i've aimed to achieve.

continuously,
i convince myself to believe
that this is it,
this is the great life
of the 21st century.

strange, that beauty lies
in broken people that wreak
havoc on the world
and themselves.

and its true, you know.
that pain derives a sense of ease
to our minds.
because in pain, we see things
clearer than the veil of beauty.

but it hurts,
it hurts so much to cry
and feel like the heart you knew is
now a rock in its shell.
its imprisonment lacks faith, and
inspiration;
it derives no pleasure in the simple things anymore.

and today its pain
speaks melodically in my ears,
of all that came and all that went,
in loud beating harmonious sounds,
until i've learned to bare the chaos in all its form.