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Pampering myself with the scent of the old ink,
The sound produced by the pen suddenly turns into a melody,
Letters collided and produced words,
Which indulged me as I turn them into metaphors

I started to define the curves of his lips,
How his tears flow down as he begins to bleed,
The way he laugh and make hearts skip a beat,
His anger and sorrow that turns up the heat

As I put the little details of him in each verses,
He began to learn how to use a pen and a paper,
Created a prose which contains lines,
Another being he is starting to define

A lady with long curly hair,
Fiery eyes which can easily tame,
Rosy cheeks and curvy lips,
He started to depict beauty― his poetry which isn't me