I am an imperfect shape; abstract

I am so many, many parts
Of the same broken vase
I hold my weight
Disproportionally
And tilt
Asymetrically
I'm still art
Some of the pieces have been mend
Some of the lines are liquid gold
But we all hold
The pain
Compartmentalized
Surgically removed the warmth
From the heart and
The sad
From the mouth and
The pain
From the brain and
Surgically scatterend them across
And just like the memory is always one
And always weights the same
So is the person
One.
Unique and
Worth the same.

When I was little
I wanted to write romance novels
It was all I read
But my heart won’t let me
No matter how many love stories I start
My soulmate is poetry

I don’t want money!
How many times do I have to say it?
I know my verses will lead to nothing
But at least I’m whole
Isn’t that what we needed?
A purpose
I’ve found mine: writing cheap poetry
that only sells to crazy hearts longing to understand
Understand what?
I have no idea
I only know that art is this—being ecstatic
Not trapped in some rule because someone said so
Do it differently
Put that dot outside the curve and
Tada! Art!
Only there does the magic make sense
Sorry, babe, you tried so hard to make me rich
But I found my wealth elsewhere
I know, you’ll tell me that money can’t buy happiness
But it can buy many other things
Still, without it
I found peace

Funny how everything can turn into art in my hands
I’m not good with spoken words
But they flow freely
through my mind and heart

I’m addicted to poetry
I want to play all day
I never knew the best toy
was the one I didn’t have to buy