Ink Stained Soul

Poetic Babble

Simple and boring, that's how you introduce yourself. But my darling, you are not some mundane sentence written at three a.m. at the shaking hand of a drunk romantic. You are not some theoretical concept of a being made up of galaxies. Nor are you some poetic gibberish beautifully strung together in an attempt to capture the essence of your parts in order to connect people to you. Your vast greatness is far to broad to be accurately depicted in any form of ink stains. Yet you ask me if this is so, then how come I insist upon writing poem upon poem with you as their focal point? The answer's so simple, yet I know you'll deny it's truth. My dear, your beauty is so incomprehensible to me, like astronomers who've studied the universe for thousands upon thousands of years in attempts to finally understand every aspect of it, and translate that beauty back to people. That's how I study you. I write similes comparing your eyes to the moon, because I've yet to find anything else that comes even remotely close to capturing the way they shine, although in all honesty, the moon if he could speak, would beg for your eyes, because when you speak with passion they shine brighter than any substance seen from earth. And I write metaphor after metaphor comparing your mind to the ocean, even though I know it spans deeper than Challenger Deep. And my dear, when I lie awake at five a.m., with spots like ink forming under my eyes yet again, babbling on about a beauty like heaven, and you accuse me of trying to turn you into a poem, it is only because I know there are over six thousand languages spoken today, but that in all the world with all the languages, there are no words to describe the beauty I see in every aspect of you. I'd write a hundred poems a day if I could convince you, but part of your beauty is your mystery, and that I know you'll never see. You probably think me a fool now for all my rambling, but darling, remember one thing. When I am awake babbling hour after hour ceaselessly from dusk till dawn, what you call poetic nonsense, it is only in a desperate attempt to show other people, and to convince you yourself of the beauty that has me so in awe. You are the exact antonym mundane.