Most People are made in prose.
A character develops over time Personality, passion, between the lines Flesh paper thin, with inked in eyes.
A person is like a journal.
Pages fill through out their lives, Towards the end, with weakened spines The story unfolds, by and by.
Mainly unremarkable, weary, tired.
The language flows and blows Right beyond every
Thought ever thunk
Or fact ever known
And I think I've thunk a few million times I want to run my hand down your spine... The book of course
I want to read until my voice is hoarse
I want to fill in the missing lines
Stare somewhere onto your inked in smile
Because I believe the author filling you up sees you like I do Like I want you to.
They see your messy hair
Messy room
Messy heart
If I were to pick the words apart
Your prose would be words of creators pride They wrote you somewhere deep and divine
Maybe you were made of poetry
That's how you float so far above me
You were depicted, descripted
From words far better than I or average
Words that leave a taste in your mouth
That you never want to wash out
I think you'd taste like cherries and-
The words I mean
They make you out to be something worth being
I know I like what I'm seeing-
I mean reading!
Even the writing is oh so tantalizing.
The way you dot your I's
I mean come on, no fair
Structurally no one can compare...
To the way youre written I mean!
This is all nothing but a metaphor, of course.
If you looked beyond my inked in eyes
You'd see just why i choose trying to hide behind it I'm cherry pits and uncrossed T's
Someone like you just can't see me
I'm prose, plainly spoken, spine humbly broken. Well worn, no classic, nothing fantastic.
.

But you, you make me speak
In words smooth and sleek
Like singing they slip, drip, sneak Across my lips
Pure bliss
Because you're letting me write you
I think that's what I'm meant to do. You're the one and only made of poetry.