The Magical but Extremely Ordinary Life of a Poet

I don’t find this shit beautiful anymore. The life. The women. The men. The animals. They aren’t extraordinary anymore. They used to speak Enochian. When I began professing love to the Universe. When I was 10-11, I saw the cosmos in everything. I saw the wisdom in the smallest grains of sand. I saw the calamity in a girls smile. That mischievous and holy smirk. It was all the wonder and full of discovery. Now I sit by this notebook and macbook, giving magic to the world. The world is drained. The women, the life, the men, the animals. They dont breath their souls anymore, they dont roam like mountains and speak like waterfalls no mo. They move silently, like frightening killers. Void of all that was beautiful. I looked into your eyes today, and I saw nothing in your stare. And when I kissed your cheek, the salt wasn’t salty but bitter. You’re not seasoned right. Where’s the hibiscus? where’s the thyme? where is that flare like falling asteroids, like hurricanes. Where’s the passion so heavy that it made me starve for your attention? I was able to taste your ambition when you walked in a room. It weighed heavy like gravity. Darling, my lovely souls. my lifeless souls. My, do you even have a soul anymore? Did you trade it for conformity? For likes and followers? My life used to be magical, I would write you, all of you in books, in stone. I don’t even know if I love anymore. Do I love? Damn, I’ve lost the appeal for this ordinary life of a poet.


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