I never believed I could, nor thought I ever would, be able to like it.
“I LOVE ENGLISH! I LOVE LITERAURE!”
I wish to scream at the top of my lungs, but won’t because it’s the middle of the night and I don’t want to wake anyone. So for now, I whisper to myself and smile, “I love English.”
It makes me laugh, it makes me cry, it makes me feel. It cannot hurt me like people, these words don’t carry swords. These words carry souls. And I love that.
I’m shy, sometimes embarrassed, to express my emotions. Even joke that I don’t have them. Emotions can hurt. And when something hurts, it is weak. Or so I used to think.
In poetry, there is comfort. I’m allowed to feel and not be shy. I’m allowed to give in to these emotions. I'm allowed to be myslef.
When an arrangement of words is so profound they can evoke emotions, that is beautiful.
And all this time I hadn’t know,
What stories could’ve shown.
That I actually like to feel instead of flea,
So thank you for showing me.