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  Dec 2015 Lainrz
Melanie Shupe Little
You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.
  Dec 2015 Lainrz
Kj
dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.
  Dec 2015 Lainrz
Isaac Peña
This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.
Lainrz Nov 2015
Life is purgatory
We spend it trying to mend the broken pieces
Of ourselves, crying out at God to save us
We spend it pretending we aren’t climbing
A social ladder made of trees we cut down
Trying to climb faster than the disaster which
Comes after our footsteps
We chase death through the pinholes of our
Name brand shoes and the shadows on our
Streets lined with empty bottles as hollow as
Our apologies.
Life is conformity disguised by disorderly conduct
It is filled with dishonesty, poverty, while we
Fret over the likes we get on Facebook
We took what looked easiest and flew our
Sorrows into tomorrow while following the man
Who leads us. We breathe easier and our
Heart beats more evenly when the blame is not our own.
There is a pecking order and we cut each other’s
Limbs off to reach the top and receive the glory
In each of our stories we are fighting “boring” by
Chasing our stormy desires
Death will be better, simpler, easier
A release from the beast we call society.
The sound of our trudging feet will cease and
We will be at peace waiting to meet our creator
Our back bones are ashes of laughter and rainforests
We made into furniture.
The only escape from this
World of **** and grime
And crime and time is lying down
And dying.
This is the great mystery of
Life flying high like a kite
And lighting up in flames by
One of our nuclear missiles
Why do we have nuclear power
When we have the human race
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