This is not a poem but meh, my life my rules.

Also, I love the poet of "Your pain is not Poetic" and this is, by no means a prose/poem to disrespect them. I dedicate this to them because they made me think about how I choose the topics that are not meant to be poetic and yet they are some of my best works. I love the poet, I really do. It's just my humble answer to their claim that my pain is not poetic.

Trigger warning: explicit mention of abuse, rape and death. Don't read it if you are young.

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Okay, so you so say pain is not poetic, right?

Alright, how about I prove you wrong? Oh my god, the audacity? It's setting the roof on fire. But I guess I can't say that because it is actually not and it's so poetic of me to say that the roof is on fire when 370,000 kids die because of it. Maybe saying that I hear the newborn's first words against the fire crackling the dark ebony and the smell of the cinnamon roll roasting alongside a baby's sock would be disrespectful because it is poetic.

And pain isn't poetic.

What about saying that a five-year-old child would stare at the assortments of chocolates but would buy a sachet of Tide washing powder because that child was taught that poverty is more close to your basic human rights than childhood? Maybe saying that the glasses of innocence that shattered to break the shackles of abject poverty, but left only scars as photographic memories that condense into the constellations which are the kid's street lamp under which their aspiration glints in their eyes and the stars shine bright against their pitch-black future would be disrespectful because it is poetic.

And pain is not poetic.

What will you do when the smoker dad of that child pays for his honey-coated cigarettes more than her education because his wife cut herself out to give birth to this freshly bled kid who is going to be a whore to her husband who is double the age of her own father? Maybe saying that she was made to bleed roses between her thighs even before the womanhood in her bloom the roses that pricked her once a month because her father would let the smoke of her innocuous honey-coated lies bite his soul would be disrespectful because it is poetic.

And pain is not poetic.

What about I told you that my abdomen aches until I can take it no more and faint on the ground in front of my entire class but have to wait for a female teacher to escort me to the sickbay because it is a natural process and all woman must go through it- the cramps and the excruciating pain and my sanitary napkins and tampons only promise to control the bleeding with a fresh scent of lavender and petunia and new gel-technology which controls the side leakage of my blood but not the leakage of my sanity? Maybe calling that the collateral damage dysmenorrhoea rather than the female warriors battling the trauma and the tragedy not because of the society but because of the war that you fight with your body and blood & gore testify the Athena you personify would be disrespectful because it is poetic?

And pain is not poetic.

Alright, you've got to agree about my friend Amar. He is a boy ready to be a man. He was told that men never cry. So, he didn't. He didn't cry when his mother left him for a rich man's money. He didn't cry when his uncle who would stare at his sister's skirt also touch him at places he never knew other's could touch. He didn't cry when his best friend died from the lack of thalassemia blood donors. He didn't cry when he committed suicide, wondering who will cry when he'll die. But saying that the salty tears that marred his masculinity only to rip his soul like a wet paper, that his tears were the drops from the Mediterranean that stopped pushing the paper boat against the ripples would be disrespectful because it is poetic.

And pain is not poetic.

Hold on, hear me out one last time. We all have faced heartbreaks, right? Just think about my friend Evangeline who met with an accident and her boyfriend was on her speed dial but he didn't pick it up after six rings because he was jealous of her hanging out with his brother. Just think about that fact that her boyfriend heard her last words in a voice message, saying that she loves him and she needs help. Think about how heartbroken she was to find that the boy who would pick her calls in a single ring at 3 AM in the morning because she wanted to hear his voice now heard, "your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. At the tone, please record your message. When you have finished your recording-"
And that was the last thing she ever heard.

Maybe saying that the birds of prey picked the pieces of the shattered heart and would simmer through her skin in the middle of the road, eating away the physical manifestations of his love, the kisses and the marks and the touch that her soul hadn't already eaten, that she felt it cracking until it would stop beating would be disrespectful because it is poetic.

And pain is not poetic.

Then again, it is a lost call, proving your wrong. The images you create in my mind brings joy and the tranquillity I was devoid of. I only knew how to glorify death. How the graveyards were lonely. How the ghosts wished they could use their hollow bones to play the flute they wanted their grandchildren to learn. How they feared the water drowning them, instead the sun-baked and death-kissed soil seeped into their skin, making them a part of the earth their grandchildren would play on when the amusement park is built upon it. How they couldn't shape their dreams and desires, but they gave their last bit to the cold clay they are mixed in, and a potter will make them a masterpiece they never were. How they smelled like the old rum, but now would smell like the mud when God would cry the tears of rain. How they would be six feet under, sleeping with the fish(es), singing the fish the lullabies meant for their grandchildren.

Alas, I can say how my cobwebs and chrysanthemum grow on my hair, like the scars of mine that sing the lore of dead and flowers that adorn my wreath. But I won't. Because you won't understand why my pain is poetic. You won't understand why I write poems(pain). You won't understand why I find a new meaning for my sufferings, that at least a poem more beautiful than rubies encrusted can be written on my pain. You won't understand how my pain evaporates and pleasure solidifies every time a reader says they relate to my pain, and it makes them feel belonged. You won't understand how onlookers call my hideous past and horrendous scars beautiful and I no more need to hide them behind a smile or a foundation that doesn't match my skin tone because the world isn't inclusive.

But saying that you're wrong would be disrespectful.

Because pain is not poetic.
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Lmao, I am not even 0.00000001% of what the thefloatingwanderer is. Nonetheless, this is my humble poem. I'll never challenge or dedicate a poet with your dexterity ever, I can't even write.

To other readers, if you mildly enjoyed the rant, then, please press the star thingy because why not?