I am cursed.
A doomed and unbeautiful creature, eyes and heart perpetually skyward, I have the curse of poets, the disease of Romanticism, seeing beauty in the ugliness and awkwardness and messiness of life.
Oh, do not say it is a curse.
The curse, then, of the unskilled poet – the off-key bard thrumming unwelcome odes to the sound of an incomplete melody,
A sawed-off kind of poetry,
A flea market poetry,
The poetry of gnats and electronics,
That which, once heard, cannot be silenced.
©K Paige Medina 10 May 2017