Writing in prose
Does not make you a poet
Telling of times
Of a crimson stream
Caused by your denial
Does not make you a poet
Just because you starve yourself
In a fruitless pursuit of perfection
Does not make you a poet
What makes you a poet
Is when seeing her eyes
Makes you want to stop the world
And detail how they twinkled
When the light came in
At just the right angle
From the glass pane windows
What makes you a poet
Is when you think that her hair
Even when she wears it in that messy bun
On the top of her head
Looks like the gold
Of that ring you found
That you would love to put on her finger
Someday
What makes you a poet
Is not knowing just the right words
To describe her
So you just say nothing
And make her become these words
That you obsesse over
Every
Single
Day
After writing this, I was actually shaking because of how relevant it was to me at that moment.