A poet is one who tells merciful lies.
Beautiful lies ignite a sense of hope. I tend to hold on to the memories my words create,
When the world is busy crying foul.
Poets have a way with words. And even the strongest ones bow to words said by a poet.
When they told you never to fall in love with a poet, they meant it.
Words have a way to break you from within.
All I ever wanted was for one who looked up to my pen.
Some say poets are selfish, what if that’s the only way to protect the one which they hold most?
Broken lies are promises we never keep.
To the girl who cries in the shower not to be seen as weak, this is to the real you
That you gave out your all when they thought you were desperate. Love is wicked, but wickedness has a way with realness.
I know I am not your type.
My type is one that has nothing to do with preference.
One that gives expecting nothing in return.
See, even the beauty of the rainbow is made up of seven colors. Perhaps the reason why dogs smell pain.
And just like men, they are suckers for pain, blended with toxic masculinity that is only hidden behind tales of unrequited love.
And women just like children, are vulnerable.
All these merciful lies are told in a truthful way. Believe me, anytime I say, “a poet is a liar who speaks the truth.”