His Story is My Words
Write. Write. Write.
It was the only passion I took pride.
The only thing that felt right.
Ink flows from my pen like a river,
Creating worlds and characters that come alive.
In the silence of my room,
I lose myself in the words I consume.
Why do I continue to write?
There was no one to excite.
No reader, no praise, no end in sight.
No meaning or purpose,
It was all worthless.
Until a star came in,
With a fearless grin and thick skin.
Bright eyes shining,
So frightening and full of meaning.
He was a dream and a king.
It was all for that lone reader,
Who made me a believer.
A world that was his—
A fool's, a dreamer's, and a reader's fate.
A man who smiled even if it was too late.
I have written stories end.
Pages I gave torn,
Everything was a pawn.
But he read, read, and read again.
Through pain, through loss, through every end.
A reader who never stopped believing,
Even when the world stopped breathing.
And so I write—
I write for his fate to continue.
I write for him to be rescued.
I write for the boy who clung in ink-stained dreams,
For the man who walked in extremes.
For the reader who became a story,
Who was never meant to live the story—
But did so luminously.
His name is written between the stars.
Between the cracks, between the scars.
And even if the world forgets,
Even if his name fades into dust—
I will write. Write. Write.
Not for fate, not for me,
But because his story must always be.
Copyright ©
Apheriam Villafioza
|