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  Jan 2018 Francisco III
Sweetheart, our paradox is this:
surely loving you will be the death of me,
but the life I live without you…
I would rather not exist.

  Nov 2017 Francisco III
Autumn Stott
So you want to be a poet?
You want to make beauty out of ugly words,
want to make people feel something,
you want the grandeur and glamour,
the clapping audience after your appearance on stage?
Well, kid, here's the thing,
A poet is not something you can just "be".
It is an illness passed down at birth,
it is the doctor handing you to your mother
and saying
"I'm so sorry, she was born with poetry in her veins".
It is your father begging for forgiveness
the first time he finds you
scribbling metaphors on your bedroom wall- just like him.
It is your first bicycle accident,
and the apologetic look
on your neighbors face when she
sees the ink pouring out of your wounds.
It is drinking too much,
not sleeping enough,
loving too deeply,
yet never loving at all,
It is walking up to every stranger you meet and saying
"here is my heart, would you like to break it?"
So you want to be a poet?
Good luck.
I've been really angry about this writer's curse lately.
  Nov 2017 Francisco III
Autumn Stott
You once told me about a theory you stumbled upon in your journey through self-discovery and quantum physics,
The Multiverse Theory, you said, is the belief that with each collapsing star in this universe, a new universe is created, the exact opposite of our own.
For every war, there is peace.
For every lie, there is truth.
For every death, there is life- all created within alternate worlds just outside of our reach.
If this is true, I'd like to believe that somewhere out there, one of me is loved by one of you,
that somewhere within the veins of infinite dimensions, we are drinking coffee on the roof of a home we built together, and in the morning, we will wake to find ourselves completely entwined in the warmth of each other's arms.
I'd like to believe that a universe exists where we find the happy ending I have been writing about since the first time I heard your voice, or, at the very least I'd like to believe that somewhere out there, your heart beats just a little bit faster when you hear my name,
because within these words, I have traveled through time and space,
and have yet to find you lying awake at one-forty-two AM, drunk and losing sleep over the ending of a poem I will never care enough to read.
A little late night rambling
Francisco III Nov 2017
if jealousy was a kid
he'd be living inside my heart
breaking windows
and slamming
just to remind me
that he is wild
and he exists.
Francisco III Oct 2017
i am not supposed to write about
how you crawled under my skin at 2am
bringing with you empty promises and
leaving me with nothing but a broken heart

but i am. i still am.
Hi, hello poetry.
  Jul 2017 Francisco III
Written stories
Wonderful mysteries
A world of dreams
And wild fantasies

He came alive
From my words he rose
He said the words
I once thought was lost gold
  Jun 2017 Francisco III
Sara Teasdale
The northern woods are delicately sweet,
   The lake is folded softly by the shore,
   But I am restless for the subway’s roar,
The thunder and the hurrying of feet.
I try to sleep, but still my eyelids beat
   Against the image of the tower that bore
   Me high aloft, as if thru heaven’s door
I watched the world from God’s unshaken seat.
I would go back and breathe with quickened sense
   The tunnel’s strong hot breath of powdered steel;
But at the ferries I should leave the tense
      Dark air behind, and I should mount and be
   One among many who are thrilled to feel
      The first keen sea-breath from the open sea.
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