No ink in our pens.

We call ourselves poets and try to get all our friends hooked on puns like literary devices

are all there is to get a message across.

We autocorrect everything we read like we breathed every word into existence and judiciously look for the errors others make in their speeches and written pieces.

Yet we spend our nights burrowing tunnels in our minds just to reach the depths of our souls where poetry makes its bed.

We wring ourselves dry of everything we have learned so the lessons we put on paper will resonate with the people that read them.

We write things hoping that they’d touch minds and leave indelible marks on hearts.

We want to be heard so we write our deepest feelings so loudly, our outdoor voices are hoarse. (Being heard is not a bad thing at all🙅🏾)

We have seen despair, loneliness and depression that sank deeper than swords into flesh.

Some of us rarely entertain happiness because we fear its liberation. We don’t learn much from peace and quiet so what’s there to write about anyway?

We choose pain over and over again because it allows us to keep the hurt and anger fresh. (Ain’t nobody got time for stale feelings.) We need to keep feeding off these painful emotions because they hold us together in some twisted way.

It is something we’re comfortable with.

It gives us so much material to work with.

We’ve heard that happy poets don’t connect much with the people.

They say the people like pain,

The people want to relate.

We want to be the ones whose names are on every woke person’s lips so we stay in our misery, churning out angry lyrics for angry people to keep them happy.

We are afraid to be the disconnect.

We want to keep people hooked on our stories-

our versions of the truth-


The pain is the only way we know how.

We are afraid to be happy because our pain is ink for our pens.



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