Bitter Fruit

Bitter Fruit

A Poem by Saint No-One

I say that "I'm sick of being sad
All the time."
She says "Stop letting yourself."
I mutter something about 
Chemical imbalances...

It's a conversation we've had
Many times,
In many different rooms.

I think about all the
Holes I've burned in my brain.

The tightness in my chest 
When I run.

The way my kidney aches
When I wake up late with pants on.

Of the scars on my knuckles.
Of the parts of me that ache
When it rains.

There's nothing beautiful 
About smoke entering your lungs.

Or bloodshot, early morning,
Jaundiced eyes.

Nothing artistic about
The holes I punched in walls.

Or the off-kilter slope
of my battered, broken nose.

My scars are not a portrait,
They're just f*****g scars.

I think that maybe it's time
We stopped romanticizing
The things that hurt.

But I guarantee 
That some of you disagree.

You find painful art
What?
Tragic, romantic?

You want to f**k an artist?
You might as well
Open your legs to a train-wreck.

Do you think you're 
Going to save them?

No, nine-times-out-of-ten
You will f**k, leave,
And end up the subject
Of another bitter poem.

But that's probably
What you want.

See, tragic artists
Don't romanticize pain.

We just write what we know.



© 2013 Saint No-One



My Review

Would you like to review this Poem?
Login | Register




Reviews

amen, i felt these words so very strongly

i think i have goosebumps

Posted 4 Years Ago


This was blunt and straightforward, and I loved every line of it. You make an absolutely brilliant point, and you do so in a very naturally flowing manner. Nicely done.

Posted 4 Years Ago


this was absolutely brilliant, i enjoyed this so much
"I think that maybe it's time
We stopped romanticizing
The things that hurt. "
this line was my favourite! well done, superb work.


Posted 4 Years Ago



Request Read Request
Add to Library My Library
Subscribe Subscribe


Stats

270 Views
3 Reviews
Rating
Added on September 17, 2013
Last Updated on September 17, 2013

Author

Saint No-One
Saint No-One

Madera, CA



About
I am an artist, but my mind doesn't work the way I want it to. One day I'll be, washing myself with handsoap in a public bathroom, thinking how did I get here? Where the hell am I? more..

Writing
Maps Maps

A Poem by Saint No-One