I am not lovely, so tell me, will you still love me?
With every verse I pen, I bare my soul,
Yet these words, like whispers, fall upon deaf ears,
Rhymes I offer you, fragile as autumn leaves,
But still they drift away, unclaimed, unheard.
My heart bleeds ink, a river of raw emotion,
Each line a plea, a cry wrapped in metaphor,
You are the escort I chase, a distant sun,
Yet my offerings lie in shadows,
Forgotten echoes of what could be.
Poems you’ll never read, treasures locked away,
In the chambers of my heart, where hope flickers dim,
I craft stanzas like love letters, yet they go unseen,
Words that ache with longing, bursting at the seams.
I’m not adorned in beauty, no garland on my brow,
Yet in these verses, I wear my truth like armor,
I ponder if a poet can ever be loveable,
With dreams that stretch like canvases,
Painted with the colors of despair and desire.
But still I write, for you are all that I need,
Each syllable a heartbeat, each stanza a breath,
Though you may never know the depths of my yearning,
In this solitude, I find solace, crafting my grief into art.
Oh, to be the one who captures your gaze,
To weave my thoughts into your heart’s embrace,
Yet here I stand, a poet, cloaked in shadows,
Words like stars, scattered, but never aligned.
Perhaps it’s true, poets aren’t loveable,
Not in the way that hearts crave connection,
Yet I’ll bleed for you still, ink my devotion,
For in this sacred act of creation,
I find fragments of love, even if fleeting,
In the echoes of my heart, where you reside.
So tell me, will you still love me,
Even if my poems fade into the silence?
Will you hold the pieces of a heart laid bare,
And perhaps, just perhaps, find beauty in my despair?
For love, in its essence, isn’t always returned,
But in this dance of words, my spirit is stirred,
And though you may never grasp the depth of my plea,
In every line, I find a part of me—
A poet, unlovely, yet forever free.
