By Lindsay Anne
I do not write the works of joy that you search for when your heart is full of joy and you want to find
someone else who has felt this.
I do not write the works that you search for when you’re in love and don’t know how to express it in
words.
I do not write the works you search for to recite to your lover to show your devotion and adoration.
I do not sing songs of joy,
or tell tales of romance.
I write lamentations of life and eulogies of the world around us,
pieces that speak of grief,
of pain,
of loneliness,
of longing.
I write pieces that one sees and knows that another has felt the same chest wrenching pain they’re in,
that one can know this pain is not only theirs,
that this pain has been felt before and will be felt again,
that this pain has been around since the beginning and will last long after the end,
that this anguish is human and ugly;
but can also be beautiful.
This pain is real and always has been,
that this pain will always be.
I write eulogies for the pain I do not know,
and the pain I do.