Love someone who you cannot even
look in the eye:
it's not the demons in their self
but the way they make your heart
skip two beats instead of one
and maybe the realization that
they need not more than one look to know
you have already decorated a heart shaped room
in your ribs for them to find their home.

That's all they'll need to know
how once they let you in
you'll overstay
and lose your mind every time
their footsteps echo in the silent soundbox
of your conscious.

We don't talk of storms when they aren't already there;
if they can't fix you up,
they'll teach you how to ache instead,
and perhaps I'll learn to forget how to
give myself away in my smiles
and scribbles.

and scribbles.

I covered my eye with a bold stroke of eyeliner in the blackest shade and masqueraded my lips with a velvety red lipstick.

I was hoping that if you focused close enough on the cover ups, that you wouldn't notice the dark circles under my eyes from staying up all night thinking of you.

Maybe you would pay more attention to the color of my lips than to the words escaping from them.

Because sometimes I say things I don't mean and I don't want to scare you away and I'm sorry.

Some thoughts come out
Like persuasive businessmen
Convincing you to buy something
you didn't even know existed

And other thoughts come out
Like stumbling drunks
On cold Thursday nights
Lonely and confused, with nowhere to go

I saw the tears swell in your eyes
they began to fall over
I tried to wipe them away
but your tears weren't made of salt water
they were made of acid
and everytime I wiped one away it burned me
I tried to forget the pain
but it got worse and worse everytime
so finally I stopped, and let your own tears burn you

I love you
And that's the problem
I will eventually hurt you
I will disappoint you
I will make you cry
It's not that I mean to
It's truly an accident
Love causes pain
That's why I wanted to tell you
I'm Sorry
Even if I haven't hurt you yet
I eventually will

When she was born
Her relatives spat on the ground,
Called her mother a witch
And said "The only thing she's good for is dowry".

By 6 years old
She understood what being a girl meant;
Be still and quiet
Your opinion is irrelevant .

At 11 she watched her brothers go to school
As she sat in the kitchen,
Doing 'the work of a woman',
With tears of longing streaming down her face.

At 17, she slept with a man who was 67
Living with the cruel hand she'd been dealt;
How did she raise 2 children
When she was still a child herself?

At 35, no longer a child bride
She was replaced,
With a girl that had not
Even come of age.

She held the young woman
And dried her tears.
She understood her sorrow
She had felt it for years.

But this was her destiny,
Her role from birth.
To be the silent weeper,
The cleaner, the mother,
The lover; who would never know Love.

At 65 she's died,
Buried next to a man she never even knew.
Not a single male cries,
Her funeral attended by few.

So why the abuse?
Why so much pain?
Why raise such a brave soul in vain?

One rebellious voice cries,
With tears streaming down her face
"If only she were male!"
She looks to me and says

"You wish to know,
why she could have had no joy?
The answer is simple
They wanted a boy"

Tell me, is it like they say in stories?
Can they find true love, so young, so pure,
Does he take her  breath away with just a phrase, just a word,
Or ignite a passionate fire with just one touch?
Do they really kiss like the world's about to expire,
Or stare deep into each other's  eyes, feeling nothing but desire?
Do they appreciate their imperfections, believing they are perfect?
So tell me, is it like they stay in stories,
Or am I truly a hopeless romantic?

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.