counting you down -
you are my
noun
& I'd rather be
honest with you
than to be
loud
let us be
calm
  let me
renounce
I took you home with me
into my house
I am still
in love with you
inside my mouth
& you should still
belong with me
ignoring miles

there may be
millions of rain drops
but they all come
from the same storm
and the storm always says
the same thing

i’m not telling what though
you’ll have to sit
and listen

Don’t become infatuated
Don’t fall in love
Especially not with poets
Because they only ever exist in their words
They will write you love poems, and lengthy paragraphs
With words said in ways you have never heard before
You will fall in love, with love poems, the way they say their vowels, and the look in their eyes when they read to you  
They will lull you to sleep with sticky sweet words
And they will speak of the colour yellow, in a new light
A new meaning will come to its definition
And it will slowly become your favorite colour
You will wear yellow dresses, and put daisies in every room  
You will see the speckles of yellow in their brown eyes
But you will find them at three in the morning sitting in the bath tub, bathing in the words of metaphors
You will find them having an affair with Stanzas and Verses at the same time, sleeping with sonnets
You will see that poetry was always their mistress
At night they will no longer share blankets with you, but they will wrap themselves in ballads and couplets
You will only be able to express this new distance with eulogies
You will start seeing yellow everywhere
In the beds of your nails, and them hems of your skirts
Till you start seeing it so often that you will want to puke up every word they have ever said to you
You will realize that talk is cheap and Rhymes are easy
You will realize that poets only ever exist in their words

Don’t become infatuated
Don’t fall in love
Especially not with poets
Because they only ever exist in their words
They will write you love poems, and lengthy paragraphs
With words said in ways you have never heard before
You will fall in love, with love poems, the way they say their vowels, and the look in their eyes when they read to you  
They will lull you to sleep with sticky sweet words
And they will speak of the colour yellow, in a new light
A new meaning will come to its definition
And it will slowly become your favorite colour
You will wear yellow dresses, and put daisies in every room  
You will see the speckles of yellow in their brown eyes
But you will find them at three in the morning sitting in the bath tub, bathing in the words of metaphors
You will find them having an affair with Stanzas and Verses at the same time, sleeping with sonnets
You will see that poetry was always their mistress
At night they will no longer share blankets with you, but they will wrap themselves in ballads and couplets
You will only be able to express this new distance with eulogies
You will start seeing yellow everywhere
In the beds of your nails, and them hems of your skirts
Till you start seeing it so often that you will want to puke up every word they have ever said to you
You will realize that talk is cheap and Rhymes are easy
You will realize that poets only ever exist in their words

The sun boils over me
Hot flesh never smells sweet

There's still a God
He stares at me in streets
Burning my feet under asphalt

I don't know his name
But I'm sure he could take the swell of our star
And lick salty sweat

Your heat creates blisters in my skin
I'm feverish now;
The steam only rises higher

The sun never ceases creating craters in my layers

You ask me what a true poet is
Do you know what I think?
There´s more to a poet
Than their tears and their ink

There is hope on that paper
With dreams in each word
You love then you hate her
Some letters are blurred

There is passion, there´s comfort
A moment preserved in time
Piece of a heart, piece of a soul
Between every line
All of the thoughts that can´t be defined

There is confusion and tension
Happy and fearful days
Not just paper and pencil
But a whole life on that page

There´s sadness, there´s strength
You live and you die
A poet feels content
But then the ink starts to dry