Peter Balkus Feb 26
Love isn't blind,
blind are those,
who never loved.
Tufayl Myburgh Oct 2017
I once read a poem.

I remember exactly what it felt like,

reading her words

becoming so lucidly aware of what she felt.

Honestly, I appreciated her more and more after reading it, purely because she’d opened a door that I’d spent years trying to find the key for.

I thought I’d return the favour by writing a poem for her.

Maybe I’d say hi first. I would like to ask how her day was and if she’s okay.

I’d then ask her if she knew how powerful her fingertips were because she effortlessly created such powerful images with her words.

After that I think I’ll tell her that she’s strong,


and smart.

The most important thing I think I’d like to tell her is that she needs to let go of this idea of wanting to be so good looking,

because, quite frankly, being pretty is not the rent you pay for living on this earth,

and perfection is nothing more than a symphony of imperfections,

so maybe she’s actually perfect and it just takes a poem for her to realize it,

just like her poem made me realize.

And to think I say all of this just because,

I once read a poem.
I hated watching her look down upon herself and seeing her wish she was something more. This is for my friend who I care about deeply.

I wish you all the best, my quirky, quirky friend.
The doubt is with the night
forever hanging in the head
it sips all the fire
the flickering stars, the
bickering meteors
the maelstrom spews hate
over the pinned madness
the magnetic field emits hate
over the pinned sadness
if it sincerely wants
to be accepted
look no further than
how life has been enacted.
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