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poetry is not all effervescent, butterflies, walks in the park, or heart throbs. every so often,  those heart throbs are from insomnia inviting itself in at 3am and you`re leaking your heart onto vacant paper, silent screams no one can hear. butterflies in the pit of your stomach are burned to ashes and you can feel nothing but pain on the grip of your pen. sometimes, those walks in the park are not scorching suns nor the moonlight kind. but all emotions attacking you at once, enclosing your chest and suddenly lost in your own world with no escape, walking down a spiral path of self-contradictions.