I've never thought of myself as a poet.
I've always been terrible at speaking.
My words are a different story.
You've always been so resisting to love.
Never wanted the intimate touch.
The feeling of wanting somebody.
Then you met her.
At glance, you didn't seem to care.
Until you seem her with another.
Soon began the sleepless nights.
The constant image of her.
You were angry but could never speak.
Yet every single night you wrote.
And you wrote about her.
About how her slick black hair,
how it falls gracefully onto her
shoulders when she pulls it down.
How her smile could turn the one
light of hope that you have left into
your sick, sad mind.
Hoping that one day, she'll know
That you'll get the courage.
That she realizes that it's love.
Then you'll realize, you're not a poet.
— The End —