Find a Poet Not a poser, not a "it's just a hobby" poet. Find one who mumbles lines as they scramble for a pen at breakfast; who shakes their head randomly when their thoughts aren't rhyming properly;  who has notebooks stashed around the house that you must never touch.
2. Listen Savor the spoken words, for those are harder to express. Keep in mind that they can't be edited and re-written, and be forgiving when a mistake is made.
3. Read The body speaks as loudly as words on a page do. When their eyes are closed or focused on the ceiling and the fingers are tapping out syllables, recognize the unique process. Respect the need for quiet, because if you look closely, you can read the poem on their face before they write it on the page.
4. Write Write your story together. Grab hold of the pen and hang on as you move across the page of life. Sometimes you will dance across, others you will be dragged. You may have to cross out a word, or a line, or a page, but don't give up. Discouragement is a poet's biggest enemy, inarticulateness their biggest fear. So end each day with a semi-colon, because the story will never end the way you think it will, and there must be room for more. There is always room for more, more words, more laughter, more tears, more love,
When you love a poet.

there's blood drying under my nails and i can still taste the blood in my mouth
i keep scratching and clawing at myself
a self-induced appearance of leprosy without the actual disease
i'm biting my lips, my mouth, my nails
there are strips and chunks of my own flesh sticking in my throat
i guess you could say it's a bit ironic that i'm choking on myself, that i'm slowly turning myself inside out
maybe if i just scratch harder, scrape faster
(scratch and sniff but with flesh and blood)
god i need to see open wounds I need to open every single bump in my skin
i yank out my hair and eat the skin off my fingertips but it's ok i don't need it
i claw open the side of my face and i don't need it, i don't need any of it
i need to smell blood, to touch it, taste it
i tripped and scraped my knee open and let me tell you i savored that moment
i hate getting hurt but i love the aftermath
sore throbbing fingers and blood in my mouth that's what i live for
jesus bled from every pore and i envy him
i'm a monster but the only one i'm killing is myself so it doesn't really matter
i don't really matter
maybe if i scratch enough i'll dig a better person out of this skin and maybe they won't smell like death
maybe they will be whole and maybe they'll be able to stand it
one, two, three new scabs on my shoulders, my neck, my face
one, two, three scars on my arms, my legs,  my back
i'm no vampire but i still need blood on my hands and it's sure as hell not innocent blood because it's mine
one of these days i'm going to fall apart and i mean that literally
gnawing on my own bones will take it's toll i'm going to collapse in a pile of my own organs and i'm going to enjoy it
it will smell like blood

I want to softly whisper
incomplete poems
on your collar bones
that don't rhyme with anything
but your heavy breathing.

I want to bury my face
in the curves of your neck
because you smell like the winter clouds
and I've been gazing at the sky
since you left.

I'm drowning in air
And inhaling the ocean
And thinking
About the sound of my name
Wrapping over your silken toungue