It is a priviledge to be loved by a poet,
to be embraced by the meter and the rhyme
and caressed by soft metaphors and sharp alliterations.
To be painted a universe with words and run-on sentences
that converge in a single thought expressed with
similes and repetitions of a single symbol.
It is an honor to be loved by a poet,
to be celebrated with odes, mourned with elegys
and elevated to a pedestal by a canticle.
It is a marvel to be loved by a poet,
to be the muse of long, weary nights of concentration
and be part of passionate lines in dramatic monologues
as each is recited with the intonation of rising ardour.
To be submerged in sizzling appreciation of one's quirks
and virtue.
To be loved and to love.
To provoke an inspiration and a sigh of ephemeral longing
and bring about a remedy to the mourning.
It is a misery and joy to be loved and be of unrequited
provocative inspiration to the riveting mind of a lone
and solitary poet.

I don't know you
But I want you.
All of you.
I want to hear your voice
Speak warm laughters
I want your hands to
Trace my geography 
To have them laced in my hair
and lock my fingers
I want your gaze
To drown me
I want the bow of you lip
To see how they pout while listening 
I want you
All of you.

Every time I look in the mirror,
I can see a monster in the reflection in the pupil of my eye.
He’s keeping me locked in the closet,
and he’s telling me not to cry.
He’s cutting up my arms and pouring alcohol on them,
he’s telling me to hide.
He’s burning down the house he built
with his family still inside.
I realize that he isn't just in my eyes,
though to the outside world,
he vanished without a trace.
I am the spitting image of him,
and this is why I hate my face.

in the sincerest voice I'd like to hear you...