my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

cold gusts of wind blow in the warm room,
grabs hold of my ankles like delicate cool feathered hands.
anything but freshly fallen from the warmth of safety,
cool as if plucked from rotting stagnant poultry.

when did the cold make me fell more safe and secure,
when did the cold fell like a presence,
a presence that is always there for me,
comforting me while my thought eat me alive at night.

but also feel as though it where grabbing hold of me,
dragging me to a deeper, darker place
while i lay there motionless,
paralyzed by my thoughts,
the energy to move escapes me,
and is effortlessly deemed irrelevant  
yet here i am,
completely aware of me slipping away
not caring at all
for how fast i fall.

thoughts of
have i ever been this low
how much deeper can i go
does it get darker,
colder,
lonelier.

will this dark cool night ever be warm.