through feathered pens inked with blood and a scarred soul of overflowing abysmal ideologies; there sits an obscured entity, scribbling metaphors and ironies in a crumpled paper of her chaos, seeking for something out of all nothings.
and here she u...
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i thought you hated poetry when you said that i am created like one for i have never once considered myself a poem; a work of art, a mastercraft.
i have always loathed myself, yet how is it that everytime our eyes meet, all i ever saw in your universe-like eyes were fervent starry twinkles which never ceased to put me in awe?
why do you look at me like i am your whole galaxy—scratch that—universe? like your own existence revolved and breathed only for me? you have always uttered words that made me feel like i was your most cherished poem that you could never stop reading over and over again.
however, i am flawed.
if you claim me as poetry, i would be that poem with unrhymed verses and stanzas; i would be that poem full of crumpled residues and ripped pages from endless torment i have gone through from the inks of my own poet—a poem rough-hewn and too shattered to be called one. despite everything i have mentioned, why are you still reading me, worshipping me, like i am the apotheosis of a perfectly scribbled piece?
consistently, incessantly, always, you have reminded me that i am flawed yet perfect. you have invariably repeated how i am the personification of a poem, but have you ever looked at yourself?
darling, i couldnʼt fathom how much you made me feel significant and adored, however, i want you to be aware that you are also a piece of art—perfectly exhibited for me to admire. you are a sculpture that was patiently carved and engraved until the most infinitesimal details.
the way your eyelashes move in synchronization with the wind makes all the paintings from renaissance irrelevant. the way your eyes twinkle like it holds a billion of stars inside your fascinating pupils made of black hole makes every celestial body personify you, instead. the way your fingers intertwine seamlessly with mine makes me wonder if you ever considered yourself the perfect pair to my poetry, because forsooth, i reckon that you are the poem predestined by the conspiration of the universe for me.
we are disparate, yet similar. and just as i am poetry, you are, too; and i canʼt stop reading you.
