he difference
"he is my difference"
the years have been passing too quickly for mei have lost too many memories to my bad memoryi have met so few people that i can remember beyond the simple "hello"but he is different --his personlity is why...he is personal to me
he takes my words from memangled from a twisted tongueas i've always felt they belonged to mestolen straight from my lips that he had pushed open to speakbut as he listened to them...he misunderstood themtwisted them and used themmisconstrued them...redefined them into something more beautifulthan i could have ever imagined...
so now each time he talks to mei can't hear a damn thing he says --his presence speaks louderhis words mean morehis steps leave imprints with mehis actions define inspirationand when he spits a spoken piecei can't help but feel that his poetry has almost become obsoletethe mic in his hand is as pointless as his efforts to raise his voicebecause his words have already echoed to menew beginningsnew realizationsa new identity deeply rootedas i look at what they had done to himthe inspiration resonates within mevibrating within my thoughtsit jolted through meand he put the pen in my handand forced me to see no intimidation in blank pagesbut rather mere opportunities laid out in front of me...
he had become my differencethe difference between a melody and a songa voice and its singerlike a talent that has yet to be discoveredhe became the stagethe foundationfor such amazing performancesand i was just the audiencethat if he knew me to be strongit was only because he held me up when i was the small, weak girl i had been...if i wanted to tell the truthhe was my honestyin my need to be heardto speak upspeak loudand be proudhe would amplify mewhen i needed the words...he would inspire me...
and even if i were just reading itthe pieces of his heart unfoldedin a notebook of poetryhis misspelled wordswere merely due to his fumbled fingersand not mistakes of thoughtreminding me that amidst mistakesand little details that hint imperfectionthe message is not lostthe emotion still preservedand i sit here still writingstill so inspired...
i had always told him that "words are cheap"because actions speak louder than wordsbut i was mistaken --the actions had become merely the echo of the words he spokethe stencil i asked him to complete with colorsthey were merely the motions of his syllables his words weren't cheap at allbut rather --they were the subtle truth that he represented to methe wind that caused the waves of the oceanhe had moved mewith nothing more than a pen in his handand a voice to speak it
his words became a gift to mepriceless -- and far from "cheap"they defined the unspokenthe unheardthe invisibleand the intangiblethey spoke of the things i couldn't seebut could only feelhe brought me to the realization that reality can also be my solacewhere i can live a dream while i'm still wide awakeand if i ever had the chance to open his eyesi would --so that he can dream wide awake with me...
he showed me the differencebetween poetry and a passionthe written words and a bold voicei became a puppet of the inspiration he was to meonly writing of the echos of what he silently spoke to me as he stood right there in front of me --i became differentbecause he is my difference...
