IWantToBeAPoet

Hi. I’m Marcus and I…want to be a poet.
And I know what some of you are thinking.
“But Marcus! You’re a great poet.”…Really?
You telling me I’m a good poet is like me telling you, you’re beautiful.
You wouldn’t believe me either.
And that’s one of the reasons I want to be a poet.
I want to be able to tell you you’re beautiful in a way that would make you believe it yourself. But I don’t want to be your typical Romeo. I want to be that insensitive asshole that will tell you everything you don’t want to hear but still convince you that you’re pretty.

I want to tell you when the hair on your legs is getting spiky and out of hand. That when that happens, it reminds me of a hedgehog or a porcupine. The cutest little thing protecting itself from all the assholes out there that would complain, or make fun of you about it. Or like the thorns on the stem of a rose…

I want to tell you that all the make up you have on your face makes you look like a complete whore. Or a mime. Because I would think you were the prettiest girl I’ve ever met in just sweats and a ponytail. That I like your face on its own…like a biscuit from Popeyes…or just through a conversation on the phone without your voice being weighed down by Sephora products. I don’t even think that’s possible, unless they made a breathmint.

That your clumsiness, is the most adorable thing. And every single thing you’ve broken because of that…well, I didn’t like them anyway.
That you…are flat-chested. And I couldn’t care less. That way, nothing distracts me from looking your face. With the tiniest little nose, I’m surprised you can even smell anything.

Glasses on your face so you're scared of being called 'four eyes'. But look here four eyes, it's just more of your eyes to look into.

Because I want to tell you that you don’t have the most amazing blue…or hazel eyes behind those frames. And I’m fine with that. That I can spend hours lost in the darkness of your pupils and I swear to God that the night sky retreats into your eyes every time the sun is out.

I want to tell you. That you…are fat. But I like it because holding you keeps me warm in the wintertime. Or that you...are a midget and all the high heels in the world won't lift you higher than my chin. But they say the best things can come in the smallest packages and you are living proof that they can.

And I don't care if you tell the corniest and lamest jokes, because I still laugh knowing that you being funny doesn't matter because I'd try to be funny enough for the both of us.

I want to learn every single language in the world and tell you that you are beautiful in a different way every chance I got. But I would never tell you what it actually meant. So you would always wonder if I was saying something bad about you. Which I wouldn’t be, I promise.

I want to be a poet, just to tell you that it’s your imperfections that make you imperfectly perfect to me. Because I like your clumsiness, I like your flat chest and your little nose. I like your glasses, and I love your love-handles...well...eh. I like your dark eyes. I like every single one of those things because they make you...you. And I wouldn't have you any other way.