Unpublished Poems

I had worked on my poem one whole summer, perfecting the story and structure and rhyme and rythym. And when he read it he asked, 'Why don't you write about what you feel when you can write very well? I mean all that goes on in your head, that rage in you, why don't you pen it down? Why do you waste your time on fabricating stories, stories that don't exist? Why don't you write about you and me and us? I told him I'm afraid of transparency, that people will read between the lines and they will know my weaknesses and they will mock my monsters. I told him if I let my rage out it will burn the paper and quill and the house and everything around and I am explosive and I don't wanna erupt like a volcano. I told him these stories are the lands I visit to breathe and hold on to life. And I told him what I never told anyone, that If you could really see through them you would find one piece of me in all the characters, one piece of my world in my stories, one piece of every dream that never came true, one realm of my mind that I only know. I told him if I wrote about you and me and us, people will laugh at me. At how insanely I loved you and stupidly believed that you love me the same love. At how I am still living in our moments and you're living in yours only. At my obsession over you and your self-obsession. I can't write a sad ending to our story, good one nevertheless, but I don't know a happy one so I won't write about us.