You are but a reserve man of emotions
The one who answers only to yes or no
The one who stands in the corner of the room of every party
The one who chooses to be alone just so

But when you write, the world stops
To listen to the words you've woven
with beauty and intertwine with sorrow
To listen to the rhythmless music
where all the butterflies in my stomach dance to
To listen to the raging wave of sentiments for humanity
To listen and to feel the love and ache that the world chooses to neglect

You, you may crack the lamest jokes
But when you write, *the world stops to listen

Do I write my poems,
Or do they write me?

Is it weird that I miss crying
Like crying because of
a good movie
a sad novel
a soulful song
or perhaps because
it hurts so bad
that all you can do is cry
and I miss it
because now
I just feel so numb

I'm grasping on to any little bit of nothing to hold onto you
And my palms are sweaty and my fingers ache
but I can't let go yet