whisper sweet nothings
in the crook of my neck
as I slowly fall asleep

trace the skin
on my dry, unshaven legs
as I loudly snore

stay wide awake
and listen to me speak
as I am deep into a dream

wrap me up
in your husky arms
as morning approaches
we are one

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

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.

you were born
with a pure light
lied over your body,
that was soon
corrupted by sin
and hatred for
your own kind,
hatred for
human beings
just like you,
society taught
you to hate
anyone different
than yourself
anyone who
may look different
or smell different
or even live different,
society robbed you
of your freedom
to choose who
you loved and
who you trusted,
society robbed you
from getting to know
the people who
may have been
exactly what
you needed in
this cruel life.

Sit down next to me
I'll tell you a story
About watching someone fall apart before your eyes
Watching the skin advance closer to the bone
The personality wither away
A cancer journey

Sit down next to me
I'll sing you a song
About the pain that is ever present and the shaking in her hands
About the confusion in her deep brown eyes as she is lost a little more to me, to herself, each day

Sit down next to me
I'll draw you a picture
About the last few days with her where she barely opened her eyes
Where she was hardly present with the substances that raced in her blood
Where she was panicked, confused and her mind was going, going, gone
Where I had to look hard to find traces of the woman I'd known

Sit down with me and I'll paint it on canvas
The desperation
The helplessness
Feeling unexplainable in it's entity
Fear and grief mingled into an indistinguishable snarled being
A living presence in that hospital room
Of the prayers, prayers, prayers
For it to be over,
For her peace and
For mine

Sit down next to me
I'll show you the pictures
Of her youth where she swam, climbed trees and skinned knees and grinned with mischief
of her first child, second child, the brief moments of smiles hugs and love, the third and the fourth and first steps and cuddles
The mystery, questions without answers and untold stories mingled with the stories with too many versions to piece together the puzzle
The life of a woman who we called our mother.