Poem title: Passion By: Nitya Jethwa

Passion is the creator of Art,

It can mend one, or be used against one’s deepest desires;

In their heart.

Passion is the sun that keeps the day bright,

And leaves you empty in the night.

It is beautiful,

It is monstrous.

It is merciful,

It is unforgiving.

It is an absurd thing,

That turns a man into Frankenstein.

Illusion, to him, is equal to time.

He drowns in the depths of misery,

Most willingly and happily.

The purest intention, sent from Heaven and Hell.

He felt it in his veins, pulsing, begging to be let out.

He knew he was falling, and in the void of the poets,

He fell.

He screams so loud, they cannot hear him shout.

His voice leaks out of his fingertips,

As those millions and billions of pages,

Filled with the monster, he flips.

It is thirsty and cannot be fulfilled.

He tries to engulf it in trauma, time, his art, and rum,

Because it is too deadly to be satisfied in this life,

Or millions of other poets to come.