“Your pretty little poetry won’t change a thing.” He said, “I will never love you again.”

Too bad he took a shot and missed because I didn’t write for him, I never wrote for him. I wrote about what he made me feel, not about him. I didn’t truly love him anyway, how could I love someone who never took my words seriously, and someone who told me, “you can’t make a career out of poetry.” Someone who laughed when I called myself a poet, a writer, when I said I bled ink, he rolled his eyes and smirked. The man that I wrote about was the man I only saw in my dreams, he would visit me at night, and it’s a funny thing, I think that’s why I like sleep so much. The only way I could make him come alive was through words and paper. I think that’s where he got confused, he mistook my creative side for something else, he thought HE was him. God, no, at least, I don’t think so. Well, I think I was writing about who I wished he was.

i.c. // I didn’t write for him, anyways (via delicatepoetry)