Poets make mediocre sunsets, seem magical
Poets write flowery words, invent bull-shit fairy-tales,
Poets. Liars, living in a world of fantasy, refusing to grow the f*** up.
They sleep with dictionaries under their pillows,
Use similes, synonyms, metaphors all those deep things,
To lie, seduce, manipulate and did I mention, lie?
If it be a crime for me to have written a thousand poems before this one,
Guilty I am. I am all of those superficial things poets are,
But right or wrong, I love you.
I'm sorry, I'm not who I'm not.
I'm sorry for believing in magic,
For being an inconvenient reality,
But after all is said and done,
Mine is a heart that lives it's truth.
Mine is a life based on never shying away,
Never denying what is, just because it's not pretty...
Loving you makes me weak, and as unsexy as it is, *a girl*
Makes me what most people don't think I am: Human
But at my most human, a poet I am. A girl I am.
Someone who loves you... I am.
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