My Art(ist) By MaryemD
"And poets, in my view, and in the view of most people I think, do speak God's language" -Stephen King.
Once upon a time I met an artist.
I met a painter.
A painter who drew me.
He drew me so perfectly that it took my breath away.
He drew me on the sun, because my life shines so bright, when he says that he loves me.
Too bright that it's almost blinding.
He drew me on every star, because that's exactly where I stand when I talk to him.
He makes me feel so light and high that I forget that I'm just a wreck of toxic gas and shining dust.
He drew a universe, worlds and maps on my mind. Secret places and safe places that only we know. Havens where I could run to whenever reality invites me to its cliffs.
He drew a dream for me and with his words he gently blew me inside it. He drew countless times, countless smiles on my face.
And each time he makes the corners of my lips an inch longer.
Once upon a time I met an artist.
I met a poet.
He wrote love poems then carved them on my heart.
He wrote the definition of love and gave it his name.
He wrote perfection because what we write is a mirror of us.
Each part of him is a verse of perfection, words of hypnosis and letters of magic.
A poet who was more of poetry himself.
And definitely my favourite poem.
Once upon a time I met an artist.
I met a musician.
His voice is a mesmerizing symphony that would have brought Beethoven's hearing back.
His laughter is nothing but a beautiful melody.
He uses my heart as a drum and with it he makes the loudest beats ever.
But as loud as they would get I could still hear his.
Our beats are my favourite song,
and I want to dance to it all night long.
Once upon a time I met an artist.
I met an artist who stumbled upon a mess of a girl.
Upon me.
Upon a person whose fingers took her tongue's job.
Because writing is supposed to be easier.
But it's not.
I'm not a writer nor a poet.
Writing is me.
But I'm not an artist.
I can't write love poems or romantic letters that would take his breath away.
I'm a jar of ink and my inspiration is anger or sadness that makes me boil.
I boil till I burst, till I shatter.
And my writings are that ink that got splattered everywhere then eventually dried.
My writings are dry ink with pieces of glass that might or might not hurt you.
But it always hurts me. But for him I'd be a writer, a poet and a reader.
Because he is a book that I want to read over and over again.
A book that I don't want to finish.
I don't want to read the words "the end" on it.
I don't want to know how it feels like to hold its last page, nor to see how the back cover looks like.
Because his skin is a blank sheet of paper and I want to write poems on it with my lips.
I want to write endless stories on it.
Bedtime stories that only us could read.
And when everything becomes heavy, when everything seems to give up on him and the world puts pressure on his shoulders I'd whisper them on his ear.
When the world feels like it's tearing us apart, I'd close my eyes and run my fingers on them.
I won't need to see them to read them.
I just need to feel them to know that everything is okay.
Everything will be okay as long as I have him.
He is a book.
A book that one day the words "the end" will be cruely craved on him.
But I don't want to see it.
I don't want to know if it is a cliffhanger, a happy or a sad ending.
Because all what I want to do is
spend the rest of my life writing,
writing on him,
writing him,
loving him.
Once upon a time I met art.''
Click the following link to check more of her writing. MaryemD's Wattpad
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