I want my words to be beautiful.
Beautiful like yours.
I want to see ordinary things,
Find the magic in them,
And put the magic on a page, for everyone to understand.

I want to have a way with words.
I want every poem of mine
To become a masterpiece.
Just like yours.

I am not broken.

But you are.

You see the world through pain,
And pain makes the colors brighter.
It makes the value of feelings
Climb higher.

Sometimes I wonder
If I should be broken like you
If I want my words to resonate
Like yours.

Sometimes I wonder,
If it will be truly worth it
In the end.

I wonder what it will be like,
To cut myself up to pour out the beauty inside me.

Just like you.

I imagine that you
Raise the blade
Slice your feelings open
And write your masterpiece
In red.

She had a patience,
that no one understood.
She could wait a million years,
just to prove her love.

But no one gave her the option.
No one wanted to wait.
No one wanted patience.
And she just wanted to make everyone happy.

On her quest to make everyone happy,
she lost herself.
She forgot how to smile.
Sometimes she even forgot to breathe.

She was willing to show her love,
but no one was willing to love her back.
At least not the way she loved them.
No one could love like she did.

But she was broken now,
and everyone kept stepping on her shattered pieces.
She was willing to wait on anyone,
but no one would wait for her.

Isn’t physically quick or agile.

Disappears in libraries.

Has been known to dissolve into the physical pages of books.

Is good at tucking herself into the stacks and retreating to reading nooks.

Blends in at coffee shops where her voice can be drowned out by the grinding and the steaming.

Can become indistinguishable in the dark of theatres, in the quiet shuffle of art galleries, the finger-snapping of poetry readings, the hum and jostle of the Tube.

Is indistinct. Adept at hiding in plain sight.