I miss writing poems about love. I haven’t been writing about that subject for so long, and it is probably because I am too uninspired to do so. Most of my poems that graced around love and the absurd goodness of it are unashamedly, mere incitements from assortments of books and online articles which I’ve read during the course of the year, in between breaks, and escapes. YouTube videos, movies, and T.V shows that feasted my eyes and coaxed all my soul are also fancy cradles.Some poems came from episodes experienced by some people, that I’ve vicariously enjoyed.I only wrote one poem about love that mirrored a personal experience that I can call mine, and I wrote it after I realized for good that all the admiration that I have for this person is gone, completely. I’ve admired long strings of faces and personalities, just fine, and none of them but this particular person ever motivated me to pen a poem of my affections. But those affections that I’ve prattled about in that poem are only recollections of a memory that I want to be remembered, because snippets of this person is rapidly slipping away from me. This person no longer holds a significant role in my life (did he, ever?) but I want to remind my future self that this person was once so important to me, and that he left me with a lesson that I will always have to remember, because I can’t afford to commit again the same mistakes that hampered me in the past.The best kinds of memories and people are those that leave you with realizations and lessons that will stay with you and guide you in the present and the days ahead, although most of them are sadly those of the fleeting kind.
Maybe I indeed have a cold disposition, otherwise I could’ve written a myriad of romantic poems now. It just dawned on me that maybe I should not be too hard on myself about this whole thing. I am no Shakespeare, and I’m certainly not that romantic-headed. I think more about geekeries than significant others or hook-ups or romantic escapades or whatnots. And I currently have a crush on George R.R Martin’s guts. Rather than torture myself to write a sappy poem, I should just write a poem about this GoT author’s kick-ass guts.