What a pretty hill that is you chose to die on climbed all that way just to watch your town burn took so much commitment and sold your soul using your last breaths to cough up smoke.
Tell me, was the grass greener on the other side? Were you happier being part of the lie? Did you die as you lived, succumbing to hate? Did you use your influence to fan the flames?
No that’s not a pretty hill you chose as your cemetery beneath the surface you were once exemplary but you used your good fortune to cash into the institute that never would have thought to die for pretty little you.
Built up from the ground by the same hands they tear down, statues with a soul sold long ago, can’t relate to the struggles of their talentless doubles, speaking so highly above the stain of society, as we scream “Who do you think you are?” to these egos gone too far, but we’re starting to catch on how they’re the statues yet we’re the pawns, oh how do you think they’d act if we turned our backs? No more eye contact with their bluffs when they look down on us, but it is them who will break under the pressure of their hate.
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 miraculous it is when you’re realizing that there is a mirror between the universe and your psyche. I saw a ghost and I thought it was real, I had a connection with a boy that I thought was real and whether it was real on the outside or just make-believe this haunted experience had a real impact on me so to come up with the title without even thinking about how that metaphor mirrored my psychological making became another “a-ha” moment where I knew God was with me and without a doubt I know He was partaking in my journey. These synchronicities don’t happen every now and then they happen all the time, it’s just a matter of recognizing them.
valerieparente 