Surely, you wonder; Who, even what kind, Brought you here. While you read through this, These words in my mind. It’s telling me to give you. It’s screaming to tell you. So, Feel at ease and safe.
If you wish to, whatever you may desire to do, you may call this your haven. Your quiet world, Built through papers and letters, blasting colors of black and white words, bring each and every vowels and consonants to life.
I do not want to appear spooky, nor to make it seem like I follow your every move. In fact, I wrote this because I’m but a mere writer who longs for its muse. A muse I can pour unto, the words I cannot speak through my tongue. Please engrave it within your heart’s deepest part that you make life seem more colorful than it appears. Who I am is not important, nor you need to know why I wrote it to you in an absurd way. All I long, is that you know you are why I am writing this now. You are these words that my mind is screaming. You are you, and you should know that you became Poetry. A writer does not need to be named, but a muse should know that they helped create another world.
Through the world you created,
Peace had surfaced,
Serenity more so like the ocean,
Calming, powerful, clean
Awoke the slumbering poet,
To draw yourself using letters,
Do not feel weary,
I will be on my way,
I just stopped by,
To tell you,
With these loud musings,
You are a muse.
