I write the poetry I cannot live

I write the poetry I cannot live.
I write about love but I don’t have any.
I write about freedom but I am caged.
I write about happiness; it has escaped me.

With my pen atop pristine white pages
the ink that is transferred as markings on the paper
transforms into beauty, love and light,
signs and laughs with joy spilling from my hand.

The curved ink dancing on the white background
celebrates the births of new words, new phrases,
exclaiming with glee, thanking my pen
while I drop my sufferings like blood onto them.

I write the poetry I cannot live
because I cannot taste a love’s kisses in the rain
or feel his caress when the wind touches me
and the fog does not make me dream of him.

I have written of sighs and whispers,
thoughts that travel through lands and
smells that bring memories in their arms
but I have not seen any of these things.

Are my words false?
Am I dishonoring my journal’s virgin pages
with the black ink of misguiding mischief?
Am I evil for creating false tales?

No

I write the poetry I cannot live
because with my pen I paint masterpieces
and make blind fables come to life
and silent but beautiful thoughts have voice.

I write the poetry I cannot live
but I live through the poetry that I write
I lay my dreams on the curves of the letters
and forget my problems with the end of every sentence.

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