I don't know why I love you
I write prose for you
I can’t explain why I love
Please don’t say no
I don't know why I love you.
I've lived my life, skimming through. I have no living relatives, and no reason to have friends. I am a poet, and live by solitary prose. I have no reason to love anypony. What makes you different? Why do I love you so?
Here I am, grasping for celery. I want to make a mundane soup to fuel my mundane body to live my mundane life. I have not met another pony to be a friend. I am surrounded by the thrum of ponies walking through the market, chatting up with ponies they may know. I have every opportunity to simply waltz up to them and fail miserably at socializing. I would only spiral downwards into depression, so it is not even worth the first effort. What do they see in them, these ponies? Is it not better to simply live life in serenity and solitude, where others are not there to pester and drag you down?
The air is hot and sticky, yet the ground remains adamant and cool. My every bone itches to simply collapse on it, rub myself in the grass. Lie motionless, and write thousands of libraries in my mind, filled with every haiku imaginable. Just from that split second, I want to write prose. It is my purpose on life, and my only one; I must fulfill the duty of Celestia above, who has chosen me to write poetry for all my days. And yet I don't move. I don't blink or breathe. I can safely assume my heart has ceased to beat as well. I'm paralyzed staring at you.
I think of the nothingness I know about this pony I now love with all my heart, and it brings me back to my own blankness that plagued my flank. I was livid-why do they get their Cutie Marks in the stupidest things? I would whine, day after day. My step-mother's response never change. Yours must be something truly special, the words floated in her singsong voice, oozing into my ears like vocal honey. Why not try something simple, like singing a song? And I would.
I would try my hardest to hit the notes to my favourite tunes, but all that issued out of my tiny throat was a horrid screech. Tearing, I dashed away from my parents, whom I swear could be heard laughing, and receded to my bedroom. I would cry and shout into my pillow, when suddenly before me would appear arcane amalgamations of words. Projections in my mind, they would come as a blurry memory, but once my concentration was taken off bawling and into seeing the visions, it would clarify into chunks of sentences. They linked together so perfectly and I wanted to share them. The inner machinations of my mind deserved to be broken of its enigma, to flow with emotions. Share them with other ponies. If only there were other ponies.
I finally memorized enough of one vision to write it down, and as I read it, my world turned upside down. The routine of my existence was shattered; art had set me free. I repeated the poem again and again, and every time a blinding flare of light would grow stronger. I could not halt if I wanted to - I was carried forth by desire and passion I had never felt. Nary a bullet in the skull could end my recital. This was my poem that I had written. It was mine. Eventually, I read it without fail, and a final flash on my trembling flank followed by a mystical ZZZAP told me all I needed to know. I was free. I was talented.
I was a poet.
I’m sorry for loving
I tried to stop myself, but
I couldn’t hold back
Time and space have ground to a standstill. I hear nought, and can see nothing but you. I see every part of you. I sense your being, and instantly more prose blooms forth. My grip on the celery withers, and it tumbles to the ground. I don't even care about anything anymore. Anything except you. That celery was a reagent of grey, and poetry is certainly not that. It is alive with colours, bouncing jovially with pink, with rhymes laid perfectly, one above the other. One cannot help but laugh. They remind me of you, the words flashing in every happy colour - indigo of your mane, lavender of your coat. Magenta of your cutie mark. In that moment, I feel something new. I feel connected to somepony else. I feel alive.
I'm so sorry, but you are my eternal muse. I must recite to you my best works. My ultimate desire for seemingly life was not to make mindless poetry that spoke of worlds that could never be. I wanted to write prose for you, to make you feel the bond that I grew in that one millisecond. I want to dash to you, stand on one knee, and ask you to share this connection forever. Why had I not seen it before? Friendship is required - it's like magic itself. If I had friends, ponies who trusted me and could keep the deepest and darkest of secrets, I could have written poetry forever ago. I need friends now. I need more than a friend. I need you. I love you and there's nothing you can do to stop me. Even if you reject me, I can write prose so moving you'll change your mind instantly.
You need my talent. You know you do. But even more than that, I need you. I need somepony to love, somepony to console in, a shoulder to cry on. I have been lacking this all my mindless life, and you have been my epiphany. There's nothing anypony can do to keep me away from you. I love you.
I will sacrifice
Mountains can always be moved
Just to be with you
And as I stand there at the market, as the celery continues to plummet to the ground, I finally open my mouth and breathe in courage and desire. My words flow with joy, and I pray that the message connects.
I can’t stop thinking
I want to write prose for you
I love you, Twilight!
