Phone dry as a well.
Well, ****.

Constantly trying to think in a corner
So I don't have to hear the misery of reality

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.

I’m no author, novelist or poet.
I’m just Me,
And don’t I know it.
I don’t need to be classified,
As long as I’m writing, I’m satisfied.

Typing out words, line by line,
I don’t care if they don’t rhyme.
I don’t care if my verses don’t scan:
I’m not always an Iambic Man.

I just say what I gotta say,
I’m not worried about any pay.
Words come to me without much bidding,
The world of its evils I hope to be ridding.

I love to spread lots and lots of Love,
Bringing peace to all like a messenger dove.
Things of beauty bring joy, John Keats rightly said,
To make us sleep easy when we go to bed.

So I’ll paint what I paint,
And sing what I sing,
Just letting those words
Do their magical thing.

Paul Butters

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.

You marked fleet
with the casting
of summer,
wild tracks
that ran on their own;
adding drops
to
patter in now,
as giving rush
the cool wait of clarity.

Each day she posed naked
As he continued to paint
Engrossed in the picture
She was twenty to his fifty
But his age never upset her
In truth, she was falling for him

He never attempted to ****** her
As if he ignored her body
Maybe she was not beautiful enough
She knew he lived all alone
He never shared his home
If he asked, she would be his

She tried to show temptation
Wanting him to notice her
No matter how much she showed
The curves of her body
He would just keep painting
As if he never noticed her there

On the last day she could take no more
"Am I not beautiful in your eyes
Can you tell I desire you
I would do anything you ask
If it be only for one night
I am yours if you want me"

"You are young and beautiful
Your beauty will be seen forever
In this painting, In your honour
But I loved so very long ago
I lost her to Mistress Death
My heart belongs to her, always"