You like being called pretty, right?
I think you're unapologetically pretty, but hear me out.
You remind me of ripped jeans and dirty converse, except leaving footprints behind in the dust of Mother Nature, it's obliteratingly pretty.
You remind me of books themselves, so precious and delicate yet so personal and independent through it's dark font, holding so much knowledge in the palms of its beholder, that's more than pretty.
You remind me of that feeling you get when you're hanging out of the window, the music couldn't get any louder as you still constantly hit the button, screaming the words into the open sky, everything just feels unstoppable, that's freely pretty.
You remind me of rain drops, falling down everywhere yet soaking it's existence into everything it's touched, that's a dance-in-the-rain pretty.
You remind me of the first flick up on a bowl during a session, coughing and coughing and then smiling and laughing right after as if time had rearranged, you're not numb, you're alive, but even then, that's still pretty.
You remind me what it feels like to be myself again, authentically.
You deserve to be in every museum, every front page, but especially, everywhere all at once to show everyone just how pretty you are.
Thank you for giving me a reason to write something that genuinely struck a nerve in me, fingers shaking as I type, but I'm so content, god is that pretty.
You are the clouds in the open air and I'm getting lost.
You are the light, one I can't describe, maybe one day.
You are every flower that catches your deep hazel (unstoppably) beautiful eyes' attention... My, my, those eyes.
Before you go;
By the way, I think you're pretty.
YOU ARE READING
Roses In The Sun
PoetryA book dedicated to the thoughts that lie beneath the surface of all that I am, all that I will be, and all that I hope to become. A book dedicated to the outcasts, to those who've felt invisible, to those who want to read and fall in love with the...
