The good side of the dark side of love

Negative. I was never happy about my writings.
I can’t satisfy myself.
Why can’t I be like Sylvia Plath,
And tell a good story with a single word?
This, I always ask.

Until hundreds of days ago,
I wrote my most heartbreaking piece.
A prose on love–
the dark side of it.

And I’m quite proud of it, I think.
After reading it for the very first time,
For a moment, I paused and took a deep breath–

“Man,” I heard me whisper.

“It is good.”

For a second I felt like the lovely lady Plath.
I smiled, but it was very sad.
If that’s how it feels to be like the great writer, then

I’d rather have a blank paper, than
A hundred pages worn out
by dark thoughts and black ink.

Or unrecorded beautiful days that
Vividly live on the mind, than
Well-documented stormy days, that
Would crush me inside.

God! How unfortunate it is to know that
A heavy heart is what I need to write a good piece.
The writer in me, is a car that runs on tears.
I feed her with my grief and my haunting miseries.

Tell me, dear.

How can I start writing beautifully about today,
Now that you’re here, and
You keep on taking my sorrows away?


Look at this! Can you even
Finish this very lousy piece?



About Gillian Cruz

I have a feeling that I am a reincarnated hippie from the '70s.
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