As poets we paint pictures of death and war,
We capture the essence of poverty and hunger,
We sing of the fiery hell that singes souls,

But...

We also express love and romance,
We instil the message of family unity,
We draw upon scenic routes and beautiful sights

But...

We never captured the character and nature
Of the black rose creating justice
Through unjustifiable means.
We never talked about Batman.

You buy flowers and a card as an excuse to write a poem, even though you're single.

2. When " How Do I love you, let me count the ways"... And you literally lost count.

3. When Cupid calls you corny.

4. When you make a poem out of those little heart candies.

5. Cupid throws up a little in his mouth after reading your exceedingly sweet sonnet.

6. You bought your kid Valentines day cards for his class and wrote haiku's on every one.

7. You ponder the box of chocolates, and how it is like life, though it sounds familiar, you title your poem "Life is Like a Box of Chocolates".

8. You buy roses and a card filled with your sweet words for your ex, though she calls you a stalker, you are glad she called you.

9. You recite Roses are Red, Violets are Blue, and you're in the shower.

10. You suddenly bulk up on Pablo Neruda, ready to take on the romantic world.

11.As you look at your hellopoetry site while driving, you see a smear of blood on the windshield, two small wings, and what looks like a bow and arrow.

12. When you write a poem and have no one to give it to, suddenly Mom is the best Valentine ever.

13. When you go on the big date, secretly you have your own penand paper in your back pocket, writing verses when you excuse yourself from the dinner table.

14. When you write a poem for your wife, your side girlfriend and your mistress, just because it feels romantic, it is Valentines after all.

15. When you give the wrong poem to your wife, instead of the mistress.

16. Your girlfriend is suddenly a diabetic due to your sweet poem.

17.When you write a poem on hellopoetry and dedicate it to your Valentine, even though you don't have one.

18. When you buy yourself roses and a box of chocolate, write a beautiful poem to yourself, you might be a romantic poet.

19. When your secret admirer is you, the secret poems don't have the same effect.

20. Last but no least, you might be a poet when you wonder if Cupid is lonely and write an invite in the form of a sonnet to see if the little guy will join you for a poetry reading.

It's not a hobby. Be prepared to give your life to it.
Read, read, read: The more poetry you read now,
the better your's will become.
Don't quit your day job. No one ever got rich writing poetry.
If you are seeking fame or to get laid,
there are obviously easier methods.
Ignore criticism, unless it is useful, and even then be wary.
Consider: Your feelings do not constitute the universe;
your love life may not be all that interesting.
Write every day. Don't wait for the Muse.
She is a fickle ***** prone to take random vacations.
Forget originality. It will paralyze you.
Write like a ******. That's what poets are.
Look forward to embarrassing yourself.
Say it in the fewest, best words.
Nothing is easy. Be prepared to burn for it.
Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts.

~mce

Don't ******* a writer.
Her thoughts will be validated upon paper,
her eyes will cry tears of ink that sink into the pages forming words never quite forgotten,
your past together will be an anthem to young girls who suffer in the same,
when she spits out her blood soaked poetry the guilt will drive you insane.
Don't. ******* a poet
Because at three thirty in the morning she will write an angry piece about how perfect your eyes looked when the rain splattered your windshield, how your kind words melted the barricade, and when you were safely inside you lit a match, just to see how many things would catch
Dont break a poets heart,
it will not break her pen and when she sends the message across the web of how you hurt her,
the sound will resonate across the night clubs and everyone will know you shattered her like good china, smashed underfoot by a mad man, tension she couldn't bare, and drunk text messages unsent about how much she cares.

We, were an unfinished painting the artist got bored with, A Mona Lisa on an etch sketch,
you curled yourself around me and tucked yourself underneath my tongue,
you said when I smiled your limbs came undone, and you fell in love with me every time I sung to you,
well maybe I should have sung louder, because my message is now falling on deaf ears,
I want to hear the words, I need you, I want to see you, I miss you.
Instead I'm glued to my screen trying not to send you hate mail so obscene,
I never meant to get this attached to you, and maybe that's why you're running away.
If I asked you to stay would you bother? Or just run faster?
I promised myself I wouldn't write a poem about you, because if I did that I would have to open my mouth,
and I'm scared now that you've jumped out, and have found safety in another girls arms, how did I not realize this would cause me harm, I never wanted to fall for you.
Don't make empty promises, to poets.
We will never forget, because we produce the highest form of lies known to man, I can make words in languages you'll never understand, but with a flick of my hand and the right stance I could make you fall in love with me after the second glance. So don't try to lie to a writer, buddy I've been there. You think hearing "I hate you." hurts wait until you wake up to.
"Your eyes make mine want to bleed, your voice crackles up my spine, and shake me to the core. Every time you look at me I think of how many different ways I could feed your organs to starving children in Africa. Your pancreas I'd send to Guam, your heart to Ethiopia. Lead you into the depths of hell and keep you locked up. In case I wanted to play with you later, no. I'm not bitter, what makes you say that."
Or better yet, imagine waking up to silence. I cannot speak for my words are numb to the bubble of hatred in my centre. If I let it escape I will never stop screaming, I've been meaning to tell you that I could never regret anything we've done together.

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