I'd like to make a prose

about a lot of  things.

Things that other writers

don't usually write about.

Poets write about the skies,

and the stars,

and everything beautiful.

 

But I'd like to write about

the other things.

 

Like your mind—

because it's gentle

and chaotic both at the same time,

yet,

nobody wrote about it

with a passionate rhyme.

 

Or your scars—

because they are both beautiful

and sad;

but nobody

wrote about it

because it would be mad.

 

Perhaps, I'll write about your tears—

each droplet

contains hundreds of emotions

or fears,

though,

nobody had written about these for years.

 

Your feelings, maybe—

which would talk about

a thousand different stories;

but nobody wrote about them

because they won't write about

your worries.

 

I can also

write a prose about you

because pain

makes a poet write something beautiful

out of something that hurts;

and I'd write about you eventually

because that's how much it burns.

 

And I'd write about the two of us—

a fantasy,

a reality

a spiritual turmoil of two souls

both passionate and kind;

which nobody wrote about

because we are always

seven worlds apart

and they are always

eight seas behind.

 

But you know what I'd most definitely write about today?

 

I'd like to write about myself,

because

somebody else

is probably

writing about you

the same way.

 

I'd like to write about myself,

because

not everyone I'd write about

would write about me, too.

 

I'd like to write about myself,

because

that's what most people rarely do.

 

I'd like to write about myself,

because in words,

I can both lie

and be true.

 

And once I'm done,

I'd start

rewriting about you,

with a hope that one day,

you'd write back

the same way

about me and you.

 

--

@pipayfoefum