Cant exist at all.

You’ll probably think this poem is about you, and maybe it is.

But it won’t mean a damn thing. Because to you words were just words, just black ink on crumpled pages, wasted breath between each touch.

Words have no power; you spoke, just pity for the weak. You said if someone wanted something they had to work for it, not write for it.

So my love letters went unseen, tucked into journals I hid from you. Birthday cards, secrets on notes, goodnight text messages, they all stayed away like the books on the shelf.

Our I love you’s were lost in translation, stuck between cold kisses and stiff hand holding.

I wrote in secret though, my pen stayed silent, my ink bled warm. Every dash and line has spelled out your name, in ways of colour, of life. Ways you’d never see, because when you read my writing all you saw was black and white.

You never opened a book of beauty, a world of rainbow, a city of lights and twinkle. My words were just words, there was no story, no pretty little poetry.

To you that didn’t exist, so our fairy-tale ending couldn’t either.

Reviews

[Asante]

This is something I can relate to.
Love's something we all translate and express in different ways. To be made to feel as if yours is a lesser version of that is to end the fairy-tale altogether, and so it seemed to be.
Fine job. Clear and very gripping. I definitely enjoyed this. :)

[horizon]

Written In memory of someone..reality of the people has been depicted through this piece..that how some people can never just understand the true meaning of love