You, Sir, are beautiful.
I want to write with you. Can I write with you? I want to correct your grammatical errors while we giggle over casual, accidental alliteration.
It’s not hard to be a writer; I can teach you how. How? How! All you must do is put a pen to paper (or pencil, in case you’re not into something that permanent, you have options; I rarely use pen, as my creativity isn’t set in stone) and allow yourself to feel. Even if it’s angry or sad or cliche… write it down. Let it out. Pour your heart and soul into mine.
Let them mix. Let us work like dyes on canvas -- spreading, leaking, filling.
Fill up these pages. Fill up my heart.
Just let loose for one single moment. I promise, it’s the best feeling you will ever experience.
Write some poetry with me. Better yet, make poetry with me. We are our own lines and stanzas, made up of an entirely unique combination of the alphabet.
Rest your broken mind in my arms; I will be its infirmary. I will pluck the little negativities from your poor soul like a child picking weeds from his mother’s garden.
I will heal your wounds and release the caged bird within you, so you can finally…
Breathe, deeply. One, two, three (there you go) write fucking poetry with me. Please.
I love this and you and us together.
We’d make a great piece.