Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I wanted to be a sunflower
Writing to you.

Dear you,

I felt that our connection bloomed in the most random of winters

I was the sunflower who responded to your sunlight's kisses.
I remember I tried to instruct my stalky body to not forget the Feeling of you that pressed on to me that night.
It felted like sensations of signals that it was the season of spring.

I had forgotten the feeling  of being a shy lonely dormant seedling.

You've stimulated every cell in my body to mustard a seed of courage in the pit of my stomach,
To root myself down with the audacity to germinate myself out of My cocooned lifestyle in the hecticness of Christmas time.
All I want is to be enveloped in your halo of warmth.
To feel you infinity,
To be touched in forever and
Dipped in a painting to be just left right next to you
My starry night.

All great stories have a beginning , a middle & a end,
But not necessarily in that order.

I wonder what metaphor you should be,
Like I wonder if our story is just at the beginning  or just at the ending.
Or if there is a fairy tale ending.
THE END .
What is on the last page of a book was on
The first chapter of ours titled rejection.

I wonder why I had to laugh to the sound of no
Just to make this easier for you
I wonder is this the false face of a lover,
Simply to care.
I wonder am I allowed to use the  word love
When our story together never really began.

I wonder if there is an alternative to the two paths I can take,
Like I wonder do you realise my meaning behind how 'I want  to watch you grow',
If the two lesser roles you had offered to me is mine to pick  to be stranger or friends
For the lesser plot of our Middle,
Let me explain,
I wanted to be somone special in this story
If you allow me to.

But instead I'm probably going to be
Like a social therapist,
Like a guardian angel,
Like a hero who does not  wear capes.

But instead I'm probably going to be
Always listening and never fixing,
Always blessing  but never protecting,
Always  changing and never rescuing.

I wonder why you  can be so certain,
I wonder  was it easy for you to edit away at this life's story

I wonder if you Know why you re called  a baby chick?
You're like a baby chick who has yet to grow out feathers
Like a chick that does not give out hope,
Cause hope is a thing of feathers.

I wonder if this relationship is at the ending or  at the beginning?
P.S. you ****

To the girls that won't take my compliment ,
You are like the villagers from  the boy who cried wolf.
Like the repetitions of me calling them beautiful was a cry of lies they got tired of hearing.
So instead of me giving them compliments.

I would have a competition with them in a argument fighting for what I believed in.

Like every time  you ask me "Do I look okay?"
Me being me ,I would hesitate to reply to you because I thought that would be a rhetorical question that you just asked me but you being you would misunderstand me thinking to myself that I was unsure of my answer.

I know this is werid but
I would put my hand over your mouth just so you can't tell me I'm wrong when I tell you that you are beautiful.


I would have to get the petition of the whole world to agree with me just to try convince you but instead I only tried to get you to sign it.
Me only wanting you to agree with my views just because I feel like you are the world to me.


You got the audacity to linger in my fondest memory.

How can you understand how I feel when only I get the privilege to see your lips go from a flat line to a smile supported with  pillars of doubts that is solidified  by my compliments of the appraisal of you.

Perfection is not what I call you, cause you don't believe in perfection but you're perfect to me and that should be all that you need from me.

Maybe everyday I will sneak in a small compliment to you just small enough for you to believe in me like a nod of approval of how you look today  and slowly spray confidence onto your skin to wear just so one day perhaps I could use the word beautiful in front of you.

We all know the story in the boy who cried wolf.

The villagers were too blind to see the truth from  the boy who cried wolf.

The woman I love is addictive , Her fragrance lingers in my mind and every now and then I wouldn't be able to get enough of her .
My love for her is like a drug, her smile is like medicinal marijuana .
While every breath of her puts my head into the clouds even picking me up on the lowest days,
I can come up to her smile and say hi.
I can count on her smile and stay high .
I can be a ******* addict on trance idling on the text in front of me wishing I can sniff up every line she gives to me.
The only thing I'm afraid of is going to rehab and in there I would learn to live my life without being hooked on to her.

Following behind the line of "I am fine" is Angers of "shut up",
Sometimes it protects your insecurities of people trying to ask questions,
when you are looking for the solution
You are given more questions.
I know it is your pushing rejection of people's
Mouths that bites to your collar bone, that punctuates your daydreams, that's dragging you back to your reality that "you do not look okay"
While it radiates poisons of " what's wrong?".
While the antidote is a smile that makes you look like a guilty psychopath
They strangle you with a question mark until you lose all your breaths of "I'm okay".
You give them a confession and
You are given more questions. They feel their hugs are miracles.
You feel their hugs are straitjackets.
It is why sometimes I feel others give you more questions
then answers.

When I think too much I become a poet.
I imagine
I am an abstract art of my inner thoughts  for display on the web with open interpretations to judge.

When I was growing up
Teachers would tell me how I had bad grammar.
I imagine
They were stubborn artists that was too obsessed with traditional art.
But I was too abstract for them to understand  with my cavemen writing .

But in poetry.
I imagine
I can be anything.

I am a bad waiter.
You can point something out on the menu,
And I probably still can't fully explain to
You what it is that I am giving to you.

I am a bad burglar.
You will see that I am really loud,
And I probably still can't fully explain to
You why I only go for things that are impossible to take away,
Why I cant stop having my eyes on things that already have an owner.

I am a bad kidnapper.
You can say 'no',
And for some reason I still can't fully explain to you
Why I will always ask for your permission
Before I try to take you to some place
You don't even want to go.

I am a bad person.
If not,how come I can make a list of things
That I am bad at.

You told me when we talk its a risky conversation.
So I imagine
We had embers for mouths
And
We conversed with smoke signals.
Unable to control our spits
The  bomb ignited
In which neither of us meant to have lit the fuse.

The most common magic trick I've ever seen is making a 100mm stick disappear.
It is the oldest trick in the book.

Everyone knows how it’s done but everyone is always never tired of being the audience to it.
Maybe it’s because the audience is always invited to take part in the act.

The trick is always done by a stressed magician,

The trick mocked by kids trying to imitate the 100mm disappearing stick trick.
They hide under the pretence of being stressed.

They disgrace the world class performers that had practiced the routine so much throughout their lives.
Never quitting
And
Always over rehearsing.

The performers would always keep practicing until it becomes its second nature like breathing.

Until it becomes like a habit,
Until they become too passionate to the routine on perfecting the make-believe act.
That they are too obsessed to  realized they had become addicted to it.

They had become too reliant over it and that they can't live without it.
Even on their last breath they would attempt to show its final performance and draw its strength from it.

The most common magic trick I've ever seen involves a 100mm stick disappearing.
The trick is like every other disappearing magic act.
First the object is lit on fire with a light,
Second the smoker kisses the object and takes a deep inhale praying the performance would go well.
Third you get distracted by the smokes given off in the exhale
And ...ta da.
While the Smoke rises
It is estimated
14 minutes of the magician's life disappearing.
However the audience is too focused on the main act of the 100mm stick disappearing to notice.