It was you, It was always you.

You meant nothing.

You were meant to.

I didn’t see anything.


You were a chore.


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?



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.




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.



And so it began.


I, the poet.

You, the poem.

This poem is about: 




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