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.

They tried to bury us my dear
But they didn't realize that we were seeds

i wonder if i'll ever see
anything as breath taking
and self shrinking as the
sight i caught, looking at
the sun hiding behind her
with it's rays surrounding
her figure, highlighting her
champagne bubble laugh

the summer and i both
have a crush on her

i'm sorry that all i can give you
doesn't include wanting you around

only missing the times that i did

this,
this is what relapse feels like.
sore knees, aching smiles,
bruised shins,
heart's been beating too fast,
afraid to tell mom and dad.
close the door, turn the shower on,
and bow to your master.
shove it down, get it out,
"i'm so tired, **** i'm so tired."
"keep going, keep going,
i promise it'll all be worth it."
my brother is only two rooms away,
but this,
this is the epitome of loneliness.
flush it down, unlock the door,
get out.
and start again.

this,
this is what relapse looks like,
teenage girl with a plastered grin,
this time she's letting everyone in,
maybe she really does have to use the bathroom,
smile, smile, smile, she's full of hate.
"i'm so happy, **** i'm so happy.
recovery is going great."
rip apart the meal plan, swallow nothing but words,
they won't find out this time,
i won't let them find out.
my brother is two rooms away,
but i,
i am the most introverted extrovert.
a master of disguise, pulling the
wool over your eyes.

it's not me, i swear it's not me.
it's not me, i swear it's not me.

i haven't been me in a while.

Once
upon a time
a little girl had a dream
that she was fading
losing
falling
and she hated it
and grew to have a
hatred
for ghosts
just like you
just like you
just like a star
something
quick
here and gone
in a flash
of purple light
and red fog
something to remember
but never to speak of
to hunt my ghosts
to hunt them down
and drown them
in smoke and white walls
something to hunt
nothing human
the deepest parts
buried beneath
a thousand
falling
shoes
and a basketball jersey
something hated
like someone I used to know
and then
with another flash
a streak across the sky
and the flick
of a lighter
like silver dripped on a wet page
like ghosts
in the mist
of a sad park
          with a sad man
                      and a very sad girl
because they have ghosts
haunting their heads
with a whisper
and a forgotten tear.