He is the whisperer breaking the silence between my thoughts.
He is the ink that colors the page I write.
He is the feeling behind every line I craft.
He is the pulse in my rhyme scheme.
He is the imagery that dances in my mind.
He is more than just words—he is poetry.

He’s more than just words, he is poetry

He tries to define her poetry
but she’s more than just words.
He tries to analyze her through psychology,
but no theory can hold her.

He studies her like an ancient text,
each symbol more confusing than the last.
She’s a Rubik’s cube
just when he thinks he’s solved her, she shifts to
unsolvable.
And it gives him a headache.

A mystery, yet captivating
and that’s what makes her even more alluring.

She is the brown-eyed girl
who lives in the spaces between his thoughts.

I am often criticized by those who think they know better. They say I will never get anywhere. That I am not smart enough, not bright enough.

They tear apart my writing.
Tell me if I work harder, maybe I’ll be almost good enough.

But I know better.
There is a fire in me that speaks with certainty: I am a great writer.

They pick apart my face, my skin, my presence.
They say I’m not beautiful. That I’m flawed.
That I must fix myself, shrink myself, polish myself just to be seen.

But I was born radiant.
I am beauty in its rawest, most powerful form.

They scrutinize my body.
Say I should mold myself into their ideal—if I just starve, strain, sweat enough.

But I already embody power.
My weight is not a flaw. It is mine. It is perfect.

They say I don’t know how to love.
That I must earn the right to be loved in return.

But I do know love.
It pulses through every word I speak, every gesture I offer.
My love is real. Fierce. Honest. Whole.

They try to break me with their words.
To silence me. Shame me. Diminish me.

But still—I rise.

They look at me and see a list of flaws.
But I am a force. A woman with endless depth and unstoppable strength.

I walk with my head high.
I carry the weight of this world—and still, I rise

Her soul is a garden, alive with grace,

Colors blooming, a radiant embrace.
Wherever she walks, warmth follows close,

Illuminating hearts with gentle light.

Her words are seeds in the soil of despair,

Sprouting hope in spaces left bare.
She breathes life into the lost and gray,
Nurturing dreams that had slipped away.

Her soul speaks softly, tender and true,
A quiet current flowing through you.
From her depths, she plants the seed,
Life springs forth for those in need.

I feel like I’m alone in a library with no guide,
the silence pressing in,
the words on the pages a reminder
that I can’t connect to anything.
The book I’m reading is losing its meaning,
the plot unraveling
with each sentence I try to understand.
And I wonder,
if I keep reading,
will the ending ever come?
Or is this story one
that doesn’t have a finish,
one that leaves me lost in its endless chapters?

Papers flutter through the air, caught in a silent dance.
A melody hums, sweet and low, where love and silence meet.
The wind whispers secrets, all that's left unsaid.
Each line she writes is for him, his words—
Adding color, giving meaning to her world.

Her dreams of him spill onto ink-stained pages,
Truth unfolding as the papers fall.
A poet's heart, bound to the man she calls her forever home.