Lost in Translation

There is no high like being sober,

Caught and trapped in steel teeth

Between the beauty of a nectar-drinking moth

And the crushing heartbreak of knowing that we

Do not see the world the same.

.

I can feel the pulse of grief in my teeth

Hitting like footsteps running, chasing an ideal

That has never existed to anyone else.

This is my world and I don't want it to hurt.

.

I want to cradle the fragile things.

Whisper in their ears that they'll never die.

I don't want to be a liar.

I want to look up to the moon and promise

That it will always end turn out alright.

.

There is no high that can match

The magnitude of agony sobriety brings

Because it is all too much all at once.

The world breathes and bleeds and dies.

.

I can feel every inch of its suffering.

My words have become lies.

Somewhere along the way, it all got twisted.

Hope became a filthy concept.

Weak. Ugly. Just not pretty enough.

.

Like the souls of the things that squirm,

That write secret messages in my palm.

Somehow I've learned how to read

The invisible poetry in their slime.

.

There is no high strong enough to combat

The rush, the ache, the bliss, the suffering

That is translating for the voiceless.

Poetry is no profession but that,

Oh that was our greatest mistake.

.

Do not believe that poetry is a...

Weak-willed, jumbling of letters, feet, rhymes.

Do not mistake poetry as an act of art

Or some sort of bleeding, dramatic romance.

.

It is a rebellion.

A systemic slaughter of apathy

Until nothing but pain and truth exist.

It is the sound of a soul desperately screaming,

Hoping someone has the guts to translate its cries.