A fleeting second on someone's news feed,No dearth of meanings for those who read,Not my stories but 'tis what I think,I say I don't write poems, I just write dreams.

You write poems with your fingertipsAnd I keep listening to the songs written on my skinBy some distant dream, similar wordsBut the verses never meet...

She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors,A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm.Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings,A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

I'd rather be not the light in your lifeThe bright day might make me obscureI'd rather be the cold darknessFor it remains, unseen, uncertain and unsure

Maybe that's what writers do-Maybe they exaggerate pain just so that you feel okay about what you're feeling.