I own exclusive legal rights to the words from this mouth drawn by my tongue always right and never wrong because I feel how I’m meant to in the phrases that come through, they’re from me to you. If you love it, I do too but if you hate it, I don’t know you.
I wrote this poem, “Like Fine China“, without fully understanding what my subconscious was trying to tell me. After reading it a couple of times I realized the meaning behind the words. Fine China is the symbol for making art (something beautiful) out of sadness. The sadness is a constant cycle that manifests itself like patterns on fine China, royal “blue” (sad) details that I’ve etched upon the surface (my writing). When I have days that I break down, the porcelain breaks down, and I could use the jagged pieces of sadness to hurt myself but instead I choose to use them to build a display out of the broken pieces in the form of a porcelain vase (art from my mental breakdown) and there I show off pretty flowers (rhymes through poetry). The problem that arises from creating art out of sadness, sometimes sadness that a 3rd party might see as “old news”, is that these emotions I’ve recited are as good as dead to the world, hence why the flowers in the fine China vase I’ve built are decaying. The wonder in this, though, is that those decaying flowers offer me, the writer, solace. The cycle of sadness and creativity continues as the decaying flowers become a beautiful floral tea that I turn to for comfort as a grieve the ongoing pain I’m still in. Other people don’t see the benefit of the flowers (writing about perpetual pain), but I do. The entire process from fine china to a floral tea is cathartic, as is the artistic process, and in the end I feel okay and like I can survive my own mental state. Alas, a new day comes, the sadness inevitably returns as I am overwhelmed with reminders from the real world, and the pretty pain goes back to being “too pretty to comprehend” (commentary on not fully understanding what I was writing in the poem itself “Like Fine China”). Thus the entire breaking down of fine china (delving into an artistic outlet) occurs again.
Isn’t it incredible how art can be completely mindless but reveal something so profound in the mind it spawns from?
How can one be so strong and indestructible yet appear like fine china, so fragile. Royal blue details drawn on clay art on top of an artistic display. Breaking as I break down, a million pieces so jagged and profound. I could use them to separate my skin instead I made a vase out of porcelain. I filled the china like a beautiful bouquet with flowers that had already decayed. And everybody calls me a sick freak because I can still see their beauty but it’s them who fail to see that dead flowers make great tea and I’ll sip it as I grieve remembering how it felt to be like fine china, too pretty to comprehend until they break me down again.
The precedent we’re setting is incredibly scary where I can’t talk and you can’t talk unless both of us agree; where my freedom and your freedom is no longer free. Our basic freedom to think is our soul’s freedom to just be. To recognize that opinions aren’t objective is what marks our humanity; to collect our differing ideas is what make us a society.
I don’t know if we can get any more low than our current reality where people are in a race to ruin each other’s livelihoods just because they don’t like the way someone else breathes and I know we all mean well but any form of censorship is the enemy the right to feel is dissolving before our eyes and I think it’s a symptom of a bigger disease because my generation was given a broken world and we feel more in control dictating how each other speak. We all have a different mind and I want to hear the different stories but we are headed for a dystopia if we can’t agree to disagree.
“Why do I create the greatest art
when I’m in the greatest pain?”
“Because the artist is a magician
taking something as ugly as heartache
and turning it into something beautiful.
That is the true power in you.”
People who say they don’t like art don’t understand that every single thing in reality is a form of expression, thus can be categorized as artwork. Throughout your life you go through different phases all eerily bound by theme and divine timing, each phase being a piece of artwork. A chapter in a book is a written form of expression and a chapter in your life will prove to be equally as expressive but in a more mental form. And life itself is your grandest art project. Make it beautiful.