Looking at my phone, staring at the number of reads yet again--not the same number I did boast not even a week ago.
I breathed silenty and heavily at the same time,
To ask that book of poems I know I poured my soul into,
"Who reads you?"
Readers, you don't even know my name, what my face looked like, if I'm a man or a woman--an old person or a child left unattended with a phone.
You don't even know who I am.
Yet you root for me. Atleast, that's what I felt whenever you read what I wrote. Some perspectives of ours don't align, some words don't match and I know, some of you don't see, believe, nor felt the same as I do.
But I'm grateful because you still did open and read the book. You tried to understand before putting it down. I also appreciate those who kept the book they picked up, even putting it in their libraries. haha.
Just what did you see in me?
They say being writer is just like standing in front of the crowd, naked. Now, I know what it meant.
You knew nothing and also everything about me. You saw parts I've hidden in real life, and also a glimpse of who I am in reality.
You don't even know what these fingers and hands that written all those words looked like. Yet you knew, which people broke my soul, which person, which living thing ever imprinted their lives into me.
- Eli