It was you, It was always you.
You meant nothing.
You were meant to.
I didn’t see anything.
You were a chore.
Insignificant.
At first.
I was told to create.
I couldn’t find your meaning.
You were the reason I couldn’t sleep.
How could you be of importance,
When disparaging eyes were all you were made with?
Write.
The teachers resounded.
There’s a deadline for this.
I was sleepless.
It was midnight.
It was when our poem began.
I felt the first line.
You had just begun.
I felt controlled by you.
How could you?
Tell me why.
For the reason.
For the passion.
I was forced into this.
You were homework!
A bittersweet finale.
Or an endless and infinite beginning.
Words weren’t meant to be special to me.
You are different.
Essays.
Explanations.
I can’t compare them to you.
I gained recognition.
You gained respect.
I am your artist.
You are my talent.
I’ve loved you since the first line.
It grows.
It spreads.
I feel intoxicated.
I can’t get enough.
I can’t help it.
I’ve associated life with you.
You’ve given me a title and identity.
I’ve given you existence and reason.
Poets and poems.
Poetry.
And so it began.
I, the poet.
You, the poem.