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  • The Poet

    Posted on October 10th, 2011 Michele Sun No comments

    And thinking that words could create love,
    oh, how I write and wring and search,
    only to build the perfect image.

    They are all paper hearts,
    I dress them in gilt edges
    and ache for someone to hold them all
    and tell me, “Yes, I see you, I hear you.”

    They become my Cyrano,
    and all the things I feel I can never show,
    because I’ve grown walls I never noticed before,
    with cracks enough to slip the pages through.

    But will they be enough when my old-age nights
    come along,
    and some people still may know me,
    but will anyone finally love me?



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