Poets are obsessed with metaphors
They’d tell how the specs of dust in light are the remnants of pixie dust,
They’d tell you how rainbows are not caused because of the splitting of light,
That they’re the signs of unicorns passing by,
They’d tell you how wonderful it is to touch the stars, even if you have to burn in that process,
They’d tell how pain is beautiful,
And you’d believe them over and over again,
They’d paint images of love with red and pink flowers,
Poetry is just like love potion
So  you’d believe them again,
They’d write poetry on something like bicycle tyres and toothbrush, tell you how wonderful the ordinary is, you’d see wonder through their eyes, they’d tell you
how magical our world is,
And you’d believe them, once again.
They’d tell you how millions of galaxies exist within your eyes, how your tears are shooting stars and  you should save them for when you really need them.
They’d tell you how the human heart even after being the size of a fist can fit gallons of love inside of it,
They’d tell you how your heartbeats are not cardiac muscles at work but your heart talking to you in whispers,
And you’d believe them, because it’s impossible not to.


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