You hurt me once
Shame on you
You hurt me twice
Shame on *me

Another  day  is  over.
Another  day  is  done.
This  week  went  past  so  quickly.
This  week  went  by  so  fast.
My  life  has  gone  so  quickly.
Old  men  told  me  so.
And  now  I  tell  the  young  men.
That  life  to  quickly  goes.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Frozen moment,
laughter with no movement.
Shall we start, girl?
Or shall we not?
Those strange lovely lips,
come with an angelic face.
A smell of a baby,
that unforgettable smoothness.

Gracias dear, you made this day.
You took all my rejected feelings.
I ain't falling in love,
I just wanna know you more.

*I believe time will bridge a moment for us.

don't love a writer
unless you can handle the truth
of the way they see your very existence
in the eyes of a poet,
a novelist,
a songwriter.
unless you, yourself, are willing to hear
the pencil moving to your name,
exposing secrets that only you two shared,
revealing hurt and laughter in rhythm and rhyme.
unless you know about the love letters
written to you but never sent
to express their yearning to hold your hand,
to kiss those lips,
to fall asleep next to you throughout the chilling night.
unless you know that your name isn't bob or joan,
or eric or melissa,
but that's how they wrote you in their novels,
marking the day you both met.

don't love a writer
unless you can handle the ache they feel
when they see you with someone else.
when they hear you laugh from afar,
but never with them.
when they allow themselves to be broken by you,
and you will never read their diaries written on napkins.
when they know you love another,
and yet still they want to hold you in their arms,
to kiss you,
to love you,
to write volumes about you.
when they promise themselves to stop writing
because the love poems have shadows of pain
and their novels go on, never ending.
when they break their hearts for you,
and let it bleed over paper and stitch it with words
to handle another day without you.

don't love a writer
until you've read their heart.

Don't ******* a writer.
Her thoughts will be validated upon paper,
her eyes will cry tears of ink that sink into the pages forming words never quite forgotten,
your past together will be an anthem to young girls who suffer in the same,
when she spits out her blood soaked poetry the guilt will drive you insane.
Don't. ******* a poet
Because at three thirty in the morning she will write an angry piece about how perfect your eyes looked when the rain splattered your windshield, how your kind words melted the barricade, and when you were safely inside you lit a match, just to see how many things would catch
Dont break a poets heart,
it will not break her pen and when she sends the message across the web of how you hurt her,
the sound will resonate across the night clubs and everyone will know you shattered her like good china, smashed underfoot by a mad man, tension she couldn't bare, and drunk text messages unsent about how much she cares.

We, were an unfinished painting the artist got bored with, A Mona Lisa on an etch sketch,
you curled yourself around me and tucked yourself underneath my tongue,
you said when I smiled your limbs came undone, and you fell in love with me every time I sung to you,
well maybe I should have sung louder, because my message is now falling on deaf ears,
I want to hear the words, I need you, I want to see you, I miss you.
Instead I'm glued to my screen trying not to send you hate mail so obscene,
I never meant to get this attached to you, and maybe that's why you're running away.
If I asked you to stay would you bother? Or just run faster?
I promised myself I wouldn't write a poem about you, because if I did that I would have to open my mouth,
and I'm scared now that you've jumped out, and have found safety in another girls arms, how did I not realize this would cause me harm, I never wanted to fall for you.
Don't make empty promises, to poets.
We will never forget, because we produce the highest form of lies known to man, I can make words in languages you'll never understand, but with a flick of my hand and the right stance I could make you fall in love with me after the second glance. So don't try to lie to a writer, buddy I've been there. You think hearing "I hate you." hurts wait until you wake up to.
"Your eyes make mine want to bleed, your voice crackles up my spine, and shake me to the core. Every time you look at me I think of how many different ways I could feed your organs to starving children in Africa. Your pancreas I'd send to Guam, your heart to Ethiopia. Lead you into the depths of hell and keep you locked up. In case I wanted to play with you later, no. I'm not bitter, what makes you say that."
Or better yet, imagine waking up to silence. I cannot speak for my words are numb to the bubble of hatred in my centre. If I let it escape I will never stop screaming, I've been meaning to tell you that I could never regret anything we've done together.