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dear poet,
commander of the pen,
master of the ink
wielder of words,
writer of songs
the one whose eyes are lensed with a microscopic lens,
the one who sees things bigger than they really are.

dear poet,
the one who wears a hat of pseudo-profundity,
i can’t say your lips are sugarcoated,
but I must say that your words are sweet.
though you speak the truth as you claim,
but your thoughts only forges sincere words,
honey-deeped in mesmerizing lies.

dear poet,
the one who lives life like the only person that sees the writings on the wall.
you write about love in a magical realm,
with a rhapsodic fluency,
so fascinating and intoxicating,
as if it was some freshly brewed wine that you were drunken from.

dear poet,
do you think I’m like you?
do you think it’s easy to draw out strength from the excruciating well of pain?
you preach pain with rhetorical lyricism,
till it becomes so appealing and alluring,
like it were some french pastries that scented of sweetness,
you preach pain like it was some place of comfort.

under the sheets

dear poet,
you can rant about the racists and plagiarists,
but sometimes you can be a bad therapist.
you alienate yourself with words,
as if the rest of the world were prisoners of an invisible jail of darkness,
and you were the only one that could see the light,
you act like you were the only one that was wise.

dear poet,
you’ve taught me to be sadomasochistic,
you’ve made me accustomed to melancholy even when I was schizophrenic.
you’ve aligned yours words like a weapon,
razor-sharp as they pierce through my heart,
like a knife going through butter.

oh poet,
you watched as my heart leaped into my belly,
your rhythmic rhymes had sent it into delirium,
now its vulnerable,
but your words keeps coming,
raining like a deluge of bullets,
piercing, pelting heavily on my captured soul,
cutting deep into the inner chamber of my heart,
breaking through the walls of my resolve,
hallucinating me,
till I slouch and bow in submission.

dear poet,
the one blessed with fluidity in artistry
the one whose pen dances eloquently
in your quatrains lies melody,
in your stanzas a remedy,
and in your lines a snippet of a story,
confined in the beauty of an allegory.
oh poet!
will your words heal again?
will they be emollient on my skin?
i just pray they soothe again,
so that your muse won’t bleed in vain.

yours poetry,

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