There’s something about using words to paint a vivid picture while creating rhythms and rhymes with your diction. The combination of sight and sound is what makes poetry so profound. Whether I’m telling a fantasy story or declaring my feelings, I’m inclined to write it like art to catalyze the healing and poetry speaks to my soul most effectively and I think it translates to the reader effortlessly.
Artistic displays without God-like fame gets you weird looks. Promiscuous fashion without hollow passion gets you unsold books. Poetic mindsets without a publisher’s subtext gets you ridiculed. Free expression without others’ discretion gets you verbal abuse. Because it’s okay to feel hurt as long as you have a following and it’s okay to create stories as long as you’re not being honest, but the moment you draw from your real life without the public’s hype that’s when they call you the bad guy; Because art without fame is just the diary of a lunatic. Love without a mate gets you deemed the psycho chick. And this is not a complaint, just a reminder that I’m aware of it. So bid me your hate, I’m already immune to it.
I’ve learned to accept that when you merge intellect with fishnets as a way to project an explicit mindset and mental health awareness you’ll get teased by the rest but I’m okay with that test because I’ve overcome too much stress against the odds of my illness to still give a fraction of a shit.
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?
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“Undergraduate physics student, Jef Sterling, has done enough textbook reading to know that the universe is home to countless mind-blowing discoveries. But Jef never expected one of those discoveries to be the mind of an obsessive compulsive writer sharing the same campus as him. After reading a poem by Lacey Parker about her personal struggle with OCD, Jef’s highly rational brain fixates on uncovering the mysteries held captive in Lacey’s highly irrational brain. Throughout the course of a school year these two students exchange ideas that merge science with art, reality with fantasy, and physical phenomena with mental phenomena. While learning from one another Jef makes it his mission to make sense of Lacey’s nonsensical disorder and all of its incredible ironies; how she lives by the notion of feeling everything emotionally but dreads feeling anything physically, how her mind lives to protect as it gradually wreaks destruction, and most paradoxically how both Lacey’s most rewarding qualities and most detrimental flaws manifest from the same brain. In Touch by Valerie Parente is a realistic fiction novel alive with intellectual discussion, mental strife, heartache, and anecdotal insight into the cognitive confines of obsessive compulsive disorder.”