H.E.R

# Let Me Tell You Why I Love Poetry A paradise beyond the reach of heaven, where my mind is never confined to walls built by dimensions. Thoughts and words are forged chainless, without the need for apologies. Here, listeners return occasionally, chasing another unguaranteed high, smoking the pot of heartbreak, inhaling what they swear will be the last line of depression. Eyes reddened with a fusion of puns and onomatopoeia disguised as love. Drops of blood bleached white by metaphors of "ifs," "likes," and "buts"— where nothing is ever meant to be calculated. --- ## Let Me Tell You What Poetry Became A home where I am both tenant and landlord. An intruder, offered the best seat to the wiring of neurons, the chemistry of emotions, and the fathomless pit called the writer. He chooses his words with the patience of a judge, listening to the arguments between heart and mind. He inks them down like a jury searching not for guilt, but for abandoned feelings. Then, like an executioner, he buries them deep upon the surface of bare paper coated in metaphors. Judge. Juror. Executioner. All the same man. --- ## Let Me Tell You How I Found Poetry Defying the ground floor of architecture, my eyes wandered onto the scrambled journal of a copyrighted soul. I said hi once. It smirked back. First, it felt like smack. Then, a smile. Then, a touch. Then, a hug. Then, it felt like him. Systematically eroding my boundaries, unapologetically looking through my pupils, boldly claiming ownership of what was never his to own. Without exchanging a single word, I was him. --- ## Let Me Tell You Why I Write I write because... I write because... I write because... I write your name with graphite, and my heart calls it art. So I can get a chance to erase it, rewrite, and name it perfection. "afopfadfwofa." Those are my words when I rob my mind of your visage. Sometimes language surrenders. Sometimes gibberish is the only honest sentence. This is where I get to write my story— where the villain never wins, where the shy stays with her, where cowardice bursts into bravery, and egos shake hands with selflessness. They ask what I write. Today, I do not write about myself. I write about her. How she walks into a room and even her shadow arrives like dawn. How she smells like a guess— a scent you've known your entire life, only to have its name stolen from you for a single second. I wish you believed I knew its name. But I would rather settle for an imperfect description than a perfect silence. How she sounds like Beethoven— finding peace inside distortion. How she looks like the SI unit of attraction. How she walks so elegantly backward through ugliness, yet somehow finds herself surrounded by beauty. They say confidence is beautiful, intelligence is attractive, silence is peaceful, loudness demands definition, and kindness belongs to a class of its own. I disagree. I replace every noun with her name, and let every adjective sing her praises. I deconstruct language the way a programmer deconstructs an object— searching for the absolute definition in a class of void and null, just to tell her, she is every noun and adjective seamlessly. I wish you could see yourself the way would suppose to. What the Mona Lisa dreamed she was. What every symphony longs to sound like. An answered prayer your parents never knew they uttered. I still write because I have yet to exhaust the first of a hundred and one ways to describe you. -## Let Me Tell You Why I Stop Writing So that I stop living, and become a census. Happy Birthday.