feels like home

for years and years, i have met muses
who sparked the flame of my slumbering poet.
they made me paint through my words,
dance through my prose, and sing through my poems.
i have offered odes to lovers i have lost,
i have sung elegies for funerals i have thrown
for the pieces of my broken heart, and
i have drawn epics of the love stories i thought would last.
a bard i have always been, life and life again.
i have wreathed words and bring life to stories of love
that only i have seen with my mind’s eyes.
years and years again, the poet i always have been,
burning the fire to the spark of love
and colors to the flame of what could be.

the muse, never was i once,
however flawed, however cliched.
i never saw art from the eyes of the inspiration,
the feeling of the spark that brought the flame—
this i have forgotten because this i never felt.
and then you came into my life
with your metaphors and simile
and such clear and vivid imagery.
you came into my life with your poetries and stories:
you made me dance on your prose,
and you made me sing with your poems.
you warmed my heart with your words of art,
the once achromatic canvass of a life i had
is now a portrait of what could be a love ballad,
painted in vibrant hues of promises and truth.

so this is how it feels to be written about
when all my life i have always been the poet,
and never the muse, however banal,
however unoriginal.
this part of me so long forgotten
is calling, and this feels like home.

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