I’m Not A Poet

I’m not a poet. But I am a writer.
I do not write intricately. I write.
I do not express beautifully.
Nonetheless, my soul speaks.
I feel and perceive other things,
other than found love, lost love,
Betrayal, Hate, Passion, and such.
All worthy pleasures or displeasures.
I can’t avoid what I see.
Especially facial expression,
or pitches in the voice, or body language.
Particular pauses, eyes of doubts–
in between the line insults.
My facial expressions.
Subtle lies, deliberate ones.
Insecurities, spitefulness, or the like.
Why? I don’t know why.
It’s not a good thing–
Nothing to be proud of.
No one truly knows much.
Because the heart is complex–
And it is deceiving, our emotions temporary.
So, instead, I whistle a few notes away.
And away, all the thoughts go.

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