Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

The waves are mad,
They run like phantoms
Throwing the rocks off guard,
While they cling onto the shore.

As if they're avoiding the morning sky,
The sun smoking a burning cigarette,
Still fresh like a poem yet to be
written into the world.

I'm trying to prolong this solitude,
My mind like a used canvas,
Rummaging through the right thoughts,
To cross this stale river,
But they feel like repeated brush strokes.

Never like those birds,
Free with no calling direction,
Every word feels measured;
Not as bold as the ones
the water spoke.

Why does this wet paper
- a landing area for
the stray water drops -
Feel like an open coffin
to every newborn idea.

A sardonic joke played by inspiration,
To lead those unused words
to lay frozen in an infinite winter,
My need to create
an unanswered plea.

Maybe one last look
at the vastness ahead,
That could lead to another story,
Just waiting on the other side..

What would it take
to guide those scattered waves,
and patch this gap in telepathy;
To get this writer's block to resign.*

● ● ●

Gradually I'm losing interest,
Negotiating and bargaining
has ****** the energy out of me,
Every one of my reasons
has been worn out,
And the wind's wrath
has taken everything in its path,
What is left is lost
under masses of dust,
Excuses why the world
is on autopilot,
And we should sit back
And watch it burn,
Because it will burn
Whether we want it to or not,
My mind asks questions,
And what I'm met with
are not answers,
are not reasons,
I'm only met with white noise,
The sound of walking feet,
The sound of closing doors,
The sound of an empty well,
The wheels rolling,
And people sleeping and waking,
As if we're meant to learn
how to walk on this thin rope,
And never do more than breathe,
How am I supposed to sit down,
and persuade myself
that tomorrow I will try again,
I tried yesterday,
And I tried today,
But I'll always be painted
pink
and submission
in their eyes,
And I'll always be painted
"third world"
And "underdeveloped"
To the passerbys,
And sadly every color of those
is permanent.
I may not be the only one
with a breath left,
But the others who gave up
on their lungs years ago,
They're trying to mute
our sound of breathing,
To fill our lungs with soot,
To  mummify our sense of being,
To push us under the wings
of what is morally accepted,
The morals that are trending this year.
And I know it,
That eventually we will recede,
Just like history tells,
And just like I am about to
bow down and look at my feet,
And brush another crude comment
under the carpet.