I have forgotten how to write poetry

long ago i ceased trying to prevent or weed out my sadness
choosing rather to cultivate it with care and tenderness
coaxing each perfect purple grape on the vine
to swell and fill with the impassioned violet of solitude
when the vine is first sprung from the earth full-grown and engorged
it is my duty to freeze the tropical and jubilant petals from the vine
i blow the chill of winter over my summer heart
self mutilation disguised as self exploration
the sacrifice of my body and mind in hopes of transformation
when the fruit has finally been isolated from the foliage
i pluck every grape from the vine and gather them in a bucket
i sag and sway and sob as i haul my faults and flaws
all of them collected to be made into ink to be pressed to paper
and when the paper is devoured and forgotten
the cycle will begin anew and the harvest will continue--

Circus Freaks will continue... soon?