sophia untitled

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sophia

She writes poems for the ones she loves, Dissecting a relationship’s layers And peeling back its jovial skin, But she is not a poet, She prefers observer Noticing tiny shifts in tones and twitches in eyes Or recorder Like an old camera Stuttering out grainy film, But she is not a poet, Her mind is intrusive And she holds her mouth shut Instead of plucking the unripened words from her thoughts So that she could throw the words at you, Leaving bruises across your skin Where their callow exclamations hit for you to remember her by, She knows that wouldn’t be effective Because she is not a poet, So she holds her words, Their heavy bodies forming dents in her hands while they grow ripe, And when she finally hands them to you, Sweet and mature, A story-like confession, You cannot help but think That she is a poet