You are a poem that can't be written by my hand, only narrated to this world by your walk, your laugh, that wonderful smile, the starshine in your eyes, the river in your hair...my eyes could read you forever...
You will read this poem, and as you read it you'll wonder why is that the first line of this, how bizarre and unintriguing.
You will feel the emotions I felt as I put these words into motion.
You won't care.
It'll touch you for a slight second and take you back with a rush of nostalgia.
You will forget this.
My words full of feeling and most likely eloquence will fade your mind like a dying butterfly,
that just flew by,
right before your eyes.
(You weren't aware of the fact it was dying, of course.)
I should say these are all ghost words, with demons attached to them; for the things that inspired these thoughts are impacted
formed by travelling people who attached themselves to little pieces of my mind.
I thought as I wrote this,
my soul is staining the paper,
for it often feels as though it is bleeding and I would say every writer feels this way.
I would hope so.
A sinking boat, over boarded with water.
A flooded river, full of life, not knowing how to deal with all of it's responsibility.
A loud room, around a small human with a sensory overload.
Each word is a brick on top of a flower.
This is as heavy as this silly poem will get.
— The End —