Between Tattered Pages

Prologue

A poet is an individual whose brains are beautifully engraved by the God's. Often admired by those who crave for poetic beauty, because of how they can use such flowery words to describe their ideologies. They're those writers who can create literary pieces that can capture one's full emotions.

But poets are nothing but liars.

Liars who tell lies upon lies to seek such beauty that only their words can paint, to feed those in hunger for a romanticized reality.

But, they can't cover their emotions with lies that they hide with more captivating words. A poet cannot lie when they're in love, and this poet can no longer lie.

I am in love.

"I am in love." Those words echoed in the chambers of my mind as I try to concentrate on the book that I'm reading. Those words meant absolutely nothing to me, as so as I thought.

I carried on with my book, I thought I finally stopped thinking about such words, but it humored me that I'm thinking of a specific human being while reading a book about deaths, about the deaths of renowned authors.

And I could only conclude it with one scary thing, the spell that I use in my poems is slowly getting me. My overly romantic fantasies are now reflecting with the thought of him, with the thought of the person I believed was just a complicated word that I can't think of a rhyme for.

"ahahaha this is not about to happen to me. Please not him- NOT HIM OH GOD"