'Alex' by Ravyn LaRue

I know it’s terribly dumb, but your interest in the odd little things I made, made me feel far too important for my own good.

I felt like I had made it as an artist when I had your attention, and a request to draw some stylish skeletons.

It was a simple gesture on your part, but simple things often mean lots for people.

I still owe you a book, and I postponed this poem long enough, not due to disinterest or any petty concern.

Rather, in a codependent way, I feel whatever I make, for you especially, ought to be my best.

Since you, unlike a score of others, gave me time to pontificate about whatever I hoped to do, regardless of whether or not my big ambitions turned out.

More likely than not, they didn’t, but I am still doing things I love doing, partially due to the support you gave me, while I lingered in some failed attempts.

It’s inevitable that I crashed and burned, but your unconditional, possibly imagined, support, was really fuel to keep me going.

Subsequently it only feels right that I write you a hell of a good poem.

I feel like this attempt might be entirely futile, in this execution.

But you are sweet, and even if your interest is out of pity, which I fear it might have been, as it was with some other souls, it was inspiration.

So you were my muse, for those few and fleeting days.

And anyone who got me to do anything of value, has a home in my heart.

I know this is likely coming off as terrifically weird, but at least I’m honest.

You are a sweetheart, and I owe you a copy of my book, still.

Hopefully I can get it to you someday, since you certainly deserve it.

When I finally do something particularly noteworthy, it’ll be because you smiled as I stumbled, as if I were actually good.