Dear Poet,
I do not know you; yet I know exactly who you are.
I do not know your name; I know the verbs and the adjectives and the metaphors that can sprout in your mind like a flower ready to bloom at two o'clock in the morning. You're afraid, I know. You're afraid to open up to another person because you've been let down time and time again. You find it hard to trust people. No one knows how you feel except for that precious notepad and your favourite pen. Replace the paintbrush with a pencil and the canvas with some paper, and darling, you are an artist. Your world is coloured through the scribbled words in the margins of your study sheets, and the inspiration you get when you discover something amazing. The inspiration to write. To write about what's good in this world, to write about what's bad, about what makes you happy and what makes you sad.
You are not defined by your name. You are not defined by what others think about you. You are not defined by the way you see yourself in the mirror, or the way you interact with others. Instead, you are defined by your favourite colours. You are defined by the beautiful moments you have learned to capture in a single photograph. You are defined by the stories you tell about that day when you were 10 years old. You are defined by the songs you listen to when you're home alone. The movies that you watch; especially the ones that can make you break down in tears no matter how many times you've seen it. But most importantly, you are defined by the words you write. The string of thoughts that you could never say out loud. The words you should have said to that certain person can be told through your poems, and the words that you shouldn't have said can be scrubbed out with an eraser in the fraction of a second. See, this is why you matter.
You matter because you are a poet. You are not just an ordinary person; you have a passion like no other. You see things that the world does not; like the beauty of a sunset or the meaning behind a song or the sadness hidden through a smile. You over-analyse everything, but that's okay because you are a poet. You can find a reason to write just because of something someone said to you, or a good day, or a bad day. In fact, you cherish the bad days because those are the times when your writing shines like the sun coming up after a long day of rain.
You are so beautiful, and everyone can see it but you. You look in the mirror and count each and every flaw you see. You wish you could be prettier, you wish you could be happier, you wish you could be like the popular kids at your school. You wish you could play sports instead of hiding out in your room all day writing a bunch of crap. But it's not crap... It is the most pure and absolutely extraordinary thing in this world. Why? Because you are a poet. Your words are who you are. Don't you dare become popular; don't you dare change who you are. You are a poet. You are unique. You are so, so beautiful.
Hands stained with ink, pencil behind your ear, notebook hidden in your back pocket. No make-up, hair pulled up, wearing your comfiest hoody. You don't have brand name clothing, or an expensive car. You don't go out partying, or eat at fancy restaurants. Why? Because you are a poet. You drink tea, not wine. You wear sweatpants, not dresses. Converse, not stilletos. You are not a model. You are not an actress. You are not like the others.
You are not outgoing. In fact, you are extremely quiet and shy. But you are kind, so so kind. You care about others, not yourself. You are the listener, not the talker. You are the nurturer. You are the lover of books, of literature, of English. You are a poet.
I do not know you. But I hope to meet you one day, I hope to share my poems with you and cry over sappy love stories and get drunk off tea with you. Why? Because you are a poet. And so am I.
Sincerely yours,
Another Poet
