unknown #15 Like 0 Twitter Charlotte Griffiths Follow Dec. 12, 2016, midnight in Creative Views: 787 Like us on facebook he kept saying I was a poet and that I was the talent, but my talent was only ever in melancholy and the skills I had to tell it, well that and the sickness inside that told me to see. I've thrown eight hundred tantrums all up and last week I tried to gut the television from the outside in; I couldn't stand the news and the journalists and the advertisements and the shame of it all. since, I've started to believe that maybe there are reptiles controlling us all. and he's messaging me as I'm away, far away, telling me that I'm capable and strong and really, I'm not. and I want to write it all down and say all the words I couldn't say, the real poetry, the real poet within, but I've become a cathedral of perplexing masks and matches and I'm not sure it's ever going to stop burning, not yet, and he keeps looking at me and cooing my words and climbing my comfort and I want to believe. but when I first started writing - when I was good, if you can call it that - I didn't write about decomposing bodies or the consumption of TV or the way that nothing seems to connect anymore, so what does that say of you and me? he kept saying I was a poet and that I was worth something but I am not myself enough anymore to see it, or much less harness it, so what kind of poet can I ever really be? Published by Charlotte Griffiths Share Mail Messenger Twitter Pinterest Linkedin Comments Related Article Creative 15 Struggles Only Book Worms Understand Creative TURN BACK WITH LEMONADE Creative Is it time to re-think on relationship with our in-laws?