The Poetry
“Please, remind me, why do you like to write poetry so much?” He asked sarcastically, his eyebrow furrowed.
“Oh, will you shut up?” I glared at him. I have no time for his mischievous comment. I need to finish this poetry first before we go, or it’ll be on my mind all night.
“The movie starts at 8. If we missed the beginning, I will not forgive you. Besides, making poetry is easy. What took you so long?” he boasted.
I rolled my eyes. “Go on then, make one. ”
He took a blank paper and the pen from my hand and stares at me for a moment. He writes something, then stares at me again, then back to the paper. After a while, he gives it back to me. I was so excited to read it, expecting something beautiful, that maybe my best friend has a poetic side of him behind all of that sarcasm.
But of course, I only become annoyed. He just wrote my full name, line after line.
“What is this?” I scoff at him. “Poetry is easy, huh?”
I wait for him to laugh, but he smiles at me.
“It’s your name. Because you are the poetry. ”
( — D.D // Excerpt from a book I will never write )
