I write poetry.
My hands —
sometimes typing, clack-clack through the night,
sometimes ink-stained before dawn’s light.
My words —
rule my spaces of calm and quite,
singing along to the songs of my heart,
Lend me an eye,
I’ll tell you stories about how
he had me melt.
The colours of my mind
only love the colour of ink.
Your heart knows the hues.
Your happiness, butterfiles’ flutters.
Your angst, a dark deep well —
with your overthinking,
that’s where you fell.
Your pain, an unstoppable sob.
If your diary couldn’t log,
I did.
To be there for you.
To be felt by you.- Paechu