Of Dreams And Madness

ilLiTeRatE

She was perfect blend of strength and timidness.
The kind where you'll stop for her fierce glare, but stick around for the innocence within.

She'll be there to give you hope when you no longer felt hopeful. And she'll be the one to keep you on your feet when you're soaring way too high in your self-absorbed dreams.

She has that smile that boys just passed by, and men noticed and adored.

She was built like a fortress made of dandelions —solid yet still penetrable.

She leaves you speechless with her speeches. She'll know the words to say and when she doesn't, her actions will speak for her. And if you're still clueless, just look at her eyes. They hold the treasures only those who are brave enough to wait will find.

She was a painting —different shades made up her façade. She was a whirl of colors, strokes —an abstract to those who only look with a glance, but a masterpiece to all who took the time to stop and appreciate.

She was art, and you lose pieces of her when you try to make her beautiful. She wasn't meant to be some porcelain doll displayed on a shelf and left to collect dust. She was meant to scare you, frustrate you, make you angry —she was meant to evoke feelings from you.

She was a storm. Leaving everyone stunned in her wake. A storm that for some destructive, and for a few a blessing in disguise.

But if she were a blessing, she wouldn't disguised herself. She'll probably run around naked. Yes, she's that type. Who knows her worth and yet trusts her heart to those people who makes her question herself.

And yes, she was still naìve in the ways of men. Someone who will torment you whether to protect her from battles when you fully know she was as skilled as generals in war. She was the very thing that keeps you awake in the night, wanting to sleep to dream of her more. And craving to start the day to see her again.

She can be the warmth that comforts you in the cold to the fire that burns your soul. The warm milk to help you sleep, and the burning whiskey to keep you awake.

She was all that, written, told, and drawn. And you... you were an ignorant who distaste art.

She was me,
A poem.

And you're you,
An illiterate.

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Madame Thoughts