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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.
© copyright

NOTE: i've noticed people sharing this to other sites without having spoken to me about it beforehand, I do not give permission for this and all poems are copyright, keep this in mind.

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my mother never actually said this to me, but i figure i'll probably end up saying it one day if i have children.

it's pessimistic yes, but i know there are exceptions. please don't take to heart. it's more a criticism of myself than all poets. :)
There is a little fleck of blood
lightly smeared inside my yellow shirt
hiding like a speck of paint
from a day’s work that I did not do.

It is a thing of shame because impulse
prevents me from being sane
as I scratch at scabs I know would heal
if not for the urge I have
to pull and peal until
a speck of blood pools
inside my now open wound
which is less than half the size
of real life bullet holes.

Now some sheets at the hotel
hide a small blood spot,
but you’d have to be an expert
to find it amidst the folded fields
of thin bleached white covers.

Like someone being abused
I try to cover this ****** bruise
this scab that wounds my fragile ego
making me feel uglier than I did
cause I can’t help picking at it.
If love is pain and pain is pleasure,
Then these bruises she shall  use as,
your affection measure.

To visualise love,
To feel your feelings,
To sense it as her wounds are healing.

Seeing, hearing,
Following Your  scent,
To know just what it represents.

She’ll take the leap,
relinquish control
As further she delves down your rabbit hole.

Enjoy the journey
but were’s the destination?
Your marks, your love? The correlation?!!

Some want to hurt,
some want to bleed.
To watch the inner anguish freed.

A world, a life,
A religious order?
His canes the relics to to this mental disorder.

See external pain,
is internal anaesthetic,
His marks she believes to be truly stigmatic.
I am enough,
My crooked smile and my chubby chin
I am enough,
My thunder thighs and my beautiful grin.
I am enough,
My glorious eyes and my reflection's twin.
I am enough,
Be it super thick or super thin.
I am enough,
With one love and without several men.
I am enough,
My golden, bronzed, and sun-kissed skin.
I am enough,
No matter where I'm going or where I've been.
I am enough,
Who I am is not a sin.
And I will always be enough.
For more of my poems, feel free to check out my blog
delaajay.wordpress.com
Lucy
Oh sweet lucy.
You are so kind.
You always listen to me
You look at me
With your kind eyes.
So gentle.
I love you, my little puppy.
My baby.
Im sorry you have to live with my dad
But as long as we live together we will protect eachother.
I know i can count on you.
Each time i come home,
And your little tail wiggles,
It warms me
I love it when you give me hugs.
You are just the cutest thing
We get to watch each other  grow up
And im proud to be your daddy

— The End —