8 encre

   my mind still clung to its depictions of uncertainty as i was trying to compose myself. i'm glad i was still being able to stare at you.

   i wouldn't really know what a deeper layer feels like if i hadn't met poetry, the bestest friend of mine, the one that i'm always counting my dull perceptions on.

   and you... you wouldn't really know that i'm a nighttime writer if i hadn't touched you just like one of my midnight papers. you've always been the curious type, you definitely wanted me to travel your blushed skin. but you know me, i like to wrap my words around those who tend to read when no one's truly around. their mindless hearts can't cope with perhaps everything that's going on in this brain of mine, yet they want to know.... they're dying to know why i'm so mentally alluring, but that's something only an insider would ever be able to notice.

   scratched words are my favorite thing to read, even when i'm staring at a blank page that undoubtedly begs to get itself inked all over again...

i think all of it wouldn't have existed if we hadn't met the risk, my dearest.

   unwritten words— that's what my brain gets itself lost in. unwritten words that i enjoy reading on cloudless, autumn days. but i have to admit: i wouldn't really know how to escape my very own thoughts if i hadn't met you, poetry. you wouldn't know how to escape yourself either. that's how i came to a realization— spiritual sickness often turns into a physical one... perhaps it's a never-ending circle for those who seek the cure outside themselves. you effortlessly became the medicine of my existence. you've always had some sort of power over me, and you knew how to put all my thoughts in one place without making me bleed.

you're the kind of poetry that captured my mind.

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