Yeah,tell me more about poetry.
How your heart aches more than mine,
How you incorporate quiescence and
Rage of ocean,
And how me,was an amateur ,
when I saw the very love in miniscule observations.
How your nocturnal anxiety, crippling over conundrums was more of love,
And me craving for your simple text,
In the boring daylight was mainstream.
How your definition of love carries depth,and mine is hollow,
Because it lacks abundance of mere words,
And isn’t metaphorical.
How I was close to you but not yours,
How I never had the accent of love,
How I couldn’t cope with the fire within you,
How you were a level up and I was just a guy who didn’t want to battle through.
How your subtle literature defied the accuracy of my maths,
How your chasm outclassed my humour,
And how valleys of north hiked your senses,
While I tripped over a pint of Budweiser.
How your favorite colour black had imbedded art,
And my royal blue was just a fantasy.
How your love was mystical and mine,
A mere reality.
Yeah,tell me more about poetry,
How you wrote me one,
And me,being trivial,made you one.