The Poet.

Look at The Poet.
He looks at you...
and he thinks you don't notice.
But you do.
I do.
Poet, tell me.
Why be so silent? I love to hear you talk.
But... I understand.
The words on paper are much more.
Well thought, well planned, and safe.

You can't hurt me.
You can't hurt you.

You can erase it if it is wrong
You can bold it if it is right.

You can't erase that stupid comment.
You can't bold the warm hug.

He writes of fairy tales and happy endings.
He writes of children and playground swings.

He says he was infatuated with...
With me in my honest mess of myself.

The Poet.
He wrote ME a poem for just ME.
My eyes alone.
My eyes alone.

Simply telling me wasn't enough.

But, The Poet.
With his paper charm, and his lead kisses...
He writes upon my heart.
A poem of happiness in wishing.
I wish for anything that will bring happiness.
The Poet... brings me happiness.
And to him, I am grateful.
I can only wish I made him feel the same way...