Uphill

How come I’m empty yet again,
Although I have so much to say?
The stories that words can’t portray
I wrote so happily back then.

My hands are tied and yet I write,
My heart has stopped and yet I feel;
Now there is never-ending fright
And then the words and hope appear.

With raw emotions I create,
A conscious process of my mind,
Nothing aesthetic, cruel fate;
Pauses and silence—what I find.

I cannot reach the blissful skies,
Too far away from where I am;
The world down here I beautify
With my bare hands, with truth and pain.

I gather words with sweat and tears,
I work until I bare no more;
My art resembles ancient fears,
Deformed and flawed, it barely holds.

A Frankenstein of poetry,
That I create with monstruous touch;
Into the world I set it free,
A creature that I built from scratch.

And yet, perhaps it will become
A stepping stone for me to climb
And I will reach the amber skies
With every word that I can find.

From failure I rise once more
And find my peace above the clouds,
Where I have been so many times,
Where once again to be I’m bound.

– Patricia