I like to think people who read poetry are the nicest and most understanding people on Earth.
Somehow they know, they know and they can feel bits and pieces of your soul in each word that you wrote.
All the paintings we make with our pens and words trapped in our throats.
They know because they feel their own soul. In the spaces between the letters of things written down and thoughts in their own head.
But everything is left up to interpretation right?
My right is not your right, thats just not right.
But see, I like to think that people who read poetry, who understand poetry, understand humanity just a little deeper.
They know that love is love.
Though I write about a ‘he’ or ‘she’ they know love knows no gender.
And whomever my poetry has fixated itself on, they know that person is well deserving of my love or my hate, or my fluid feelings that wrap themselves around over and over.
They feel what I feel if not only for a second.
They understand that you can love two people at once.
That secrets are as dark as a pitch night sky.
That words run like faucets even while we sleep. About the world and the way it works.
Things unknown and unseen.
I love people who read poetry.
Their eyes are filled bright with things I’ve said and things I’ve felt.
Their souls blossom in moonlight with a book in hand as they learn how to write.
Share things we’ve seen in coded messages that only some know how to read.
I love people who read poetry because it’s nice to have someone listen to me.