Your Words Are Empty.

Creativity encompasses my very existence,
It’s my escape.
My version of passive resistance,
Because the world would never be enough for me.
And so I find myself elongating emotional encounters,
Enunciating each syllable of each word within each sentence,
To ensure it sounds better, feels better.
Maybe if I manage to pick apart each segment,
Or completely reconstruct and redefine,
Conversations would finally be deep enough for me to hold on to,
And your love would somehow be good enough to make me vulnerable.
I mean you say you love me but is that all?
Do you not wish to expatiate some more?
Emphasise on what it is about me that stands out,
Like how my lips look caricatured when I attempt to pout,
The awkwardness that envelopes me when you catch me checking you out,
How I miss every tune as I attempt to sing along to our favourite songs.
Do you not want to say that these make you fall a little bit more? Or deeper? Or faster?
Doesn’t anything I do make your heart grow fonder?
Your words of affection are so plain,
They mean nothing to the people on my side of the creative spectrum.
How could I possibly believe them?



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