As a poet
I am expected to romanticize the **** out of you
spill my heart out on paper write about the way you drink your tea so calmly and how it reminds me of the sun going down
sliding my fingers through your messy hair is like running through a field of sunflowers, I'd write
none of this really fits though
after all, I'm a poet

when you sleep
I'll admire the peace and beauty that lie within your precious, resting face

I'll write about the shades of green your eyes hold
and go in detail about how different they are from each other

I'll fall asleep next to you and hold you tight when you're not sleeping right

I'll be the breeze in the summer
not the disturbing type that ruins your hair
but the type you crave when the hat is running down your neck, spine
(everything will be fine)

I'll kiss you
wait, no
I'll gently press my lower lip against yours
breathing in the air I've been missing out on
placing my thumbs on your cheeks, carefully
I'll kiss you like my life depended on it

As delicate as a poets soul may be, my soul

I'll be the first sip of coffee that burns your tongue
the insomnia sweeping into your bed at 3am
baby please stay up with me
I'll be the discomfort in silence, the wrong color that ruins a painting
(pardon my screaming I can't hear myself with all these voices in my head)


call me a poet