I consider myself as a poet, not a good one, but I know my words are something. It helps me express myself just like everybody else’s ways how to share himself to the world.
At the same time, I want to be a poem. Someone’s poem. Someone’s choice of words. Someone’s favorite lines to utter. How nice it’d be to have a poem written for you, right? But then I realized, does it really matter? When you fall in love, all your standards will dissipate in thin air. Instead, imagine someone who will tell you: “I suck at words. I can’t and won’t write you a poem. But I hope that my eternal love for you and every piece of me that I devote to you can be like a poetry that will feed and satisfy your soul.” In the end, that should be enough. He himself should be enough. A poet or not.