I am poetry.

Just like that, one day, a strange thing happened, it happened so swiftly that I didn't phathom it coming, which was that I couldn't write. I just couldn't express in all certainty what I wanted to say because I had ceased to process words into sentences.I was broken.The one thing that was so important to me, the one thing that kept me sane in this tragically insane world was abruptly taken away from me. Even that so ruthless torn away by those who didn't value genuineness made it worse. 

I chould only grieve by shutting out all thoughts. Simply extinguishing all forms of trigger that would set a fire ablaze that would consume me and burn me down to ash.  That scared me all the more I had musterd up all the courage that was left in every cell of my body to do what had to be done to protect myself. And I don't regret it not one bit. But the process of it painfully indulged in to my everyday life which made it harder to run from. So I'm finally going to accept it that I lost. Lost the most lovely part of myself that innocently believed that love exists. Something that I had believed for a good 25 years of my life. Had to be torn away like a pages of a journal and crumpled and torn to bits before burning it in the fire of rage that crept it of how unjustified the whole scenario was.No human being should be made to feel small and insignificant, no one should be made to feel like their opinions are invalid and no human should be put in a position that they fear another. This is all forms of harassment that builds from toxic traits that go unnoticed by normal people of people who try to manipulate and control the situation. It breaks you and makes you question your reality .But it's important to remember that ones true core cannot be taken away from oneself.  Behavior of a person and their personality can be controlled but only briefly. A free spirit tends to break free that's the nature of such.It will not and cannot be fit into a mold....no one can, each one's mold is unique and a shaped to be their own self and for one mere human to think they have to power to posses another seems all like a mockery of the superior power of existence. Why hang heads in shame while that what was done was nothing less than an achievement, when a woman scorned retaliates its over it's because she's tried and tested and sustained and she's maybe a couple weeks away from the decision of ending it all.But that's the beauty of poets they die. The beauty of poetry is that it lives.Poetry births immortal poets that suffer to die but cannot,  they're breathed back to life everytime their poetry is read or sung or felt or thought of or loved or hated or cursed at or even cried to.What a pathetic life it must be to die several deaths . But mortality is beautiful none the less.

I believe that I am love in its every sense,I am romance in every sense. I am whole.I am a free spirt.Iam poetry.And it's not easy for people to see and accept this. I will never confine.