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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. :)
Being young and stupid I was taken over
By a mature and clever woman with desire
She had all the skills of a very good actor
She with half attire wanted me to admire

All her body with everything underneath
Hence she made me to kiss and caress that all
I like newly born little soul searched beneath
And she played me ***** to be victim to fall

Purity of love was butchered on ***** beauty
She showed me all paths leading to ***** greed
Being unable to resist I took fruit from tree
So i was no more to say something or to plead

After some years I saw an angel who need love
Because of her sheer innocence I took her on
In praise of alluring beauty of innocent dove
I came out from darkness to be poet of dawn

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
I was never the type
of child that obeyed
much  of anything;
not even the many
times  I was told
not to stare into
the evening sun
when I felt
alone.
120
I hate when you leave the toilet seat up
Or how you spill toothpaste over the sink
I hate finding your clothes hung over furniture
And how you sleep pushed up against my back
Radiating your heat all through the night
I hate even more waking and realizing you're gone
I still can't bring myself to erase the signs of you
It's been a hundred and twenty days since you left
A hundred and twenty days since I last saw you
A hundred and twenty days since I touched you
I remember staying up late at night
You said you'd travel to the most distant places
With or without me
I never thought you'd actually do it
A hundred and twenty days since you left
I still feel you pushed up against me at night
And I wake to an empty spot on the bed
With a matching pain in my heart
While grief is the only one I wake up to
A hundred and twenty days since your death
Shared on Hello Poetry on October 7, 2017
All rights reserved under Bianca Reyes
Blah blah blah
Enjoy
My body's stained with the proof,
of all of my regrets.
All those things I thought had mattered;
I later learned, I would forget.

My mind is now a mess.
Just fragments of a story.
One I can no longer read.
For the sentences have gone blurry.

I try my best to hold onto,
The life that I once knew.
Of coffee cups, of cigarette butts,
of and old Chevy truck named Blue.

Loved ones names come and go.
Their faces all look the same.
I don't understand why my legs won't work.
Why my body is in so much pain.

Like a flower blooming in the spring.
And like the trees dying in the fall.
Every body and mind have a season.
And mine is slowly coming to a stall.

Now, here I lay, on a rough white sheet.
Where I'm stuffed with tubes and hand fed.
No longer am I anything,
but a man in a hospital bed.
For my grandpa.
If your words can touch,
save,
comfort,
or
make someone,
just
one person
do or be better,
feel or understand more,
open up,
trust,
relax,
love,
feel less alone,
even just a little...
Than that's all that really counts.
If you could change just one life...
Do it.
Speak out.
Share.
Just, DO it!
Your voice,
could very well,
be
the one
that
others
desperately
need to hear.
The message is in the poem.
Speak out. Maybe save someone.
Eternity is real, I go there when you're not here!
Burning my
eternal body
of blazing stars
on a painter's
canvas of the
night sky.
Silver rays of
moonlit dreams
sing the hypnotic
mermaid melody
to the broken
mirror of
Aquamarine.
Where waves of
marble bitterly cry
into the deep,
do not disturb
her pearly sleep...
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