my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.
Oct 20, 2016
Oct 20, 2016 at 8:07 PM UTC
Come over.
Have a glass of peach apple wine
and tell me what it's like to live with her and think of me.
When she ***** you and your hands are in her fake red hair,
tell me how you close your eyes and think of running your hands through mine.
How my honest green eyes flash in your mind
and make you hope.
Read me the poem you wrote me
while she sat on the couch next to you
playing with the cats you named together.
Tell me how I've given you confidence,
how my soul reflects in your writing
because I showed it to you.
Come over and be mine for the afternoon.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 2:46 PM UTC