Read Poetry: Spread Your Wings, by Lana Rafaela Cindric

Genre: LIFE

Let me tell you something:
No one is going to look at you, broken and shattered ​
and think -​
Damn, you are beautiful.
No one is going to come pick up your broken pieces ​
off the floor ​
and assemble them into a beautiful whole.
Hell,​
even you won’t look at yourself and think – ​
I made broken look beautiful.
You know why?
Because all those writers lied to you.
Yes,​
all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and ​
blood dripping down chins,​
pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you ​
like hurricanes.
Liars.
So you and I,​
we are going to make a plan.
You are not going to romanticize days when your ​
brain tells you to smash that mirror,​
you are not going to romanticize the lover who ​
doesn’t understand you ​
but still writes about you.
Here is what you are going to romanticize instead:
You are going to romanticize the first day of spring,​
its gentle hands all over your body,​
lifting you up until you are as light as a feather.
You are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love,​
no hurricanes,​
but sunshine that builds you up from within, ​
that helps you make it through the worst days.
You are going to romanticize the gentle hands of a friend​
in yours,​
telling you that it is going to be okay.​
because it is.
And don’t trust poets,​
we’re no good,​
we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount ​
to a beautiful disaster, ​

but in reality – there ain’t nothing beautiful ​
about shaky hands holding a cigarette and​
empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls.
You know what is beautiful, instead?
The days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile,​
scars and all.
Music that makes your soul flow like a river,​
books that offer comfort,​
families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm,​
friends that give you strength when you can find none,​
lovers who make you laugh through tears.
Baby, ​
from now on​
you are going to romanticize healing;
honey dripping down your fingertips,​
August nights that stick to your skin,​
the day you find your purpose,​
long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now.
Bad news:​
no one is coming to save you.
Good news:​
you can save yourself.

 

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This entry was posted in 2017 Poetry, poem, poet, poetry, Uncategorized and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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