Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

Even the truffula trees were cut down,
Used to make thneeds sold around town
Once-ler think of the trees,
What even are these thneeds?
Things that everyone must need?
Or the product of careless greed?
Once you see something is special,
You realize it's too late to save it...
Or is it?
We know the story
About the last seed,
And how maybe just maybe
We could bring it all back
The truffula trees and with them love,
Love for the trees
And love for the seas,
And even the buzzing bees,

I found her near a large Oak in the woods,
Not far from where that old cabin stood,
She was sputtering blood and not far from death,
I hadn't much water, but I gave her what was left,
Her eyes so weary and the purest black,
I felt heartless and wondered what her attacked,
Her wounds malicious and so very deep,
Yet she didn't convulse or even weep,
The Sun was almost rising then,
I wondered what compelled such men,
She had been, the passed night, all alone,
I knew all she wanted was Home,
And slowly her eyes went right to mine,
At that moment, I knew inside,
I watched every ounce pass from this life,
I sat there, pathetic, wondering if I could cry,
I heard her last painful and drowning breath,
She heard, like a gavel, my passing steps.

Who am i?
Somewhere between man and god
Who am i?
Someone who'll spare the rod,
Am i Mr. Manson or Honest Abe?
Am i a king or a slave?
Am i Charles Freck?
Do i have an once of self respect?
Do i care?
What color is my hair?
Implying i have any...
Maybe i have lots of money
Or instead just a penny,
Who am i?
But more importantly
Who are you?

She's like my coffee, super sweet,
Lots of sugar and kisses
My extra special treat.
She's a little dark, maybe somewhat sour
But I still love her
And I try to kiss her every hour
She has lots of different flavors
Cinnamon, vanilla, black, and Irish cream
And she rocks her **** Chuck Taylor's