Yesterday I left work early because I felt ill. I went to "Verbal Onslaught" which is an on-campus poetry and spoken word open mic hosted by a bunch of people who are interested in sharing and listening to poetry. I walked in moments before he was about to perform. He performed beautifully, and even after he was finished, I continued to think about what it was like to be with someone who possesses such mastery over language.
Being an amateur writer whose family has a history of creativity, none of which I seem to possess, a part of me is envious about how beautifully he puts words together. I marvel at everything he's written and I wish that I could express how much I love his work without it seeming to be even slightly obligatory. I do not appreciate his writing out of obligation, or emotional bias, and I wish it didn't seem that way.
He writes so much, and everything he writes I find worthy of recognition on the largest possible scale. I know that maybe not everyone feels the same way but I have a soft spot for men who write about challenging things, and not just things that are obviously challenging: does love exist? what is our purpose? He delves deeper than the stereotypical angsty cusp-of-adulthood author and writes about things that matter and things that men tend not to talk about: black identity, masculinity, racism sexuality outside of conquest. His poetry is reflective, but never whiny. He is profound but never arrogant. I love it.
Falling in love with a wordsmith can be dangerous. You are forever vulnerable to becoming another stanza of poetry, or maybe even a chapter in an epic. Either way, there is a subconscious fear of becoming a memory, a fleeting thing to write about that will be occasionally referenced in quick metaphors to past lives. Living in fear is not positive, so instead of paying attention to subconscious nagging, I focus my energy on appreciating the privilege I have of being so close to such a beautiful and artistic mind. His energy calms me. I feel blessed to be around him, to watch him as he focuses on work, to listen to him when he trails off and sings partially remembered phrases of songs and to hear him spit poems freckled with bits of his soul.
Spending time with his is like being in an art museum, filled with a mix of modern art and classical pieces. For some reason, I am quiet, like I'm trying not to wake the paintings. I am silent and contemplative, a mask for overzealousness. How long can I pull this off? How long can I sit on an empty bench staring up at wondrous and inexplicable work of art? I want to find meaning in what he doesn't say as well as what he says. I want to listen to his poems until I've comprised an anthology of all the things I've learned about him.
I'm lucky to be dating a poet. I'm not the only one who thinks so. I resent people looking at him like some object to throw affection at only when he's on stage spitting the truth that they would otherwise ignore. I hate people looking at him like his poetry is what makes him beautiful. I feel like women observe him with cruel intentions, an artist and a (fetishized) black man they can get affection from because he shares his vulnerability on a stage. I want to protect him, more than I can. I want to keep him safe from people I know are hurtful, and maybe I'm being overbearing by thinking that way, but it's only because I'm familiar with human nature and how easy it is to destroy something beautiful. Think about how easy it is to step on a butterfly, just by misplacing your foot in a flower bed.
Being an amateur writer whose family has a history of creativity, none of which I seem to possess, a part of me is envious about how beautifully he puts words together. I marvel at everything he's written and I wish that I could express how much I love his work without it seeming to be even slightly obligatory. I do not appreciate his writing out of obligation, or emotional bias, and I wish it didn't seem that way.
He writes so much, and everything he writes I find worthy of recognition on the largest possible scale. I know that maybe not everyone feels the same way but I have a soft spot for men who write about challenging things, and not just things that are obviously challenging: does love exist? what is our purpose? He delves deeper than the stereotypical angsty cusp-of-adulthood author and writes about things that matter and things that men tend not to talk about: black identity, masculinity, racism sexuality outside of conquest. His poetry is reflective, but never whiny. He is profound but never arrogant. I love it.
Falling in love with a wordsmith can be dangerous. You are forever vulnerable to becoming another stanza of poetry, or maybe even a chapter in an epic. Either way, there is a subconscious fear of becoming a memory, a fleeting thing to write about that will be occasionally referenced in quick metaphors to past lives. Living in fear is not positive, so instead of paying attention to subconscious nagging, I focus my energy on appreciating the privilege I have of being so close to such a beautiful and artistic mind. His energy calms me. I feel blessed to be around him, to watch him as he focuses on work, to listen to him when he trails off and sings partially remembered phrases of songs and to hear him spit poems freckled with bits of his soul.
Spending time with his is like being in an art museum, filled with a mix of modern art and classical pieces. For some reason, I am quiet, like I'm trying not to wake the paintings. I am silent and contemplative, a mask for overzealousness. How long can I pull this off? How long can I sit on an empty bench staring up at wondrous and inexplicable work of art? I want to find meaning in what he doesn't say as well as what he says. I want to listen to his poems until I've comprised an anthology of all the things I've learned about him.
I'm lucky to be dating a poet. I'm not the only one who thinks so. I resent people looking at him like some object to throw affection at only when he's on stage spitting the truth that they would otherwise ignore. I hate people looking at him like his poetry is what makes him beautiful. I feel like women observe him with cruel intentions, an artist and a (fetishized) black man they can get affection from because he shares his vulnerability on a stage. I want to protect him, more than I can. I want to keep him safe from people I know are hurtful, and maybe I'm being overbearing by thinking that way, but it's only because I'm familiar with human nature and how easy it is to destroy something beautiful. Think about how easy it is to step on a butterfly, just by misplacing your foot in a flower bed.
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