Choice

Am I a need or a choice? Am I the only, or one of the few?

My gullible mind, hasty and volatile. Decorating stage on the grounds of dreams.

I am here, I’ll be there, though was I there among a throng with its arms open? Or was I the one in a crowd? Poetry made you immortal, thoughts made you remembered, tears made you felt. Diary was your mirror, filled with what you were, what you are, every little metaphor had a thought behind it. I stashed a piece of you behind every similie. Doomed at every smile, intoxicated by your presence. Captured you in the moment, stored forever. This is unread, unheard, and probably will stay so. If I’m amongst the crowd, if I’m amongst the many, let my thoughts be to my diary, let friends sail all over. Was I the one making boundaries, and the one crossing it? Yet somehow I wanted it to stop making sense, wanted it to feel so wrong, wanted it to turn out wrong, but yet fingers dwindled across your name. Love a poet and never die, love a lover and know the small things you let go unnoticed, love a flaw and watch it turn to beauty, love the one and be nobody’s second.