I love you
that in itself
is poetry

his eyes are one of my favorite things about him.
but i can never draw him, much more his eyes.
not even when i try.
i can never capture the way his eyes glow
as soft as a little star when he smiles softly,
or as bright as the sun when he beams.

i can never copy the intensity of his gaze
without my pencil lead breaking or my hand tensely shaking,
in fear of giving injustice to such opened and clear windows
to his beautiful soul.

i can never shade enough to give it the depth similar to reality.
i can never bring out the emotion of his eyes
with my pencils
like the way he does with his heart.
i can never draw the flutter of his eyelids,
the curls of his lashes,
the color of his irises,
or the void of his pupils,
all of which i get entranced and ****** into the blackhole of his soul.

i can never draw him in the simplest way:
his eyes staring at me.
because i can never look into his eyes
or lock gazes with him--
not even with a still portrait.

Growing up gay wasn't easy.
Always knowing I was different to the rest.
I never felt right, never felt normal.
Because I'm not.
I'm different.
But sometimes difference is good, isn't it?
I've accepted myself.
But some haven't.

My frightened friend once said to me:
"I'm scared... I think I'm gay, no longer straight!"

To which I replied:
"I do not care, I like you for who you are, and to me you're still my mate"