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 Nov 2016 saranade
Rapunzoll
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. :)
 Sep 2015 saranade
mikecccc
You should talk
To the moon
It's not very outspoken
And won't share much
But is a great listener
Plus you won't have
Any trouble looking it
In the eye.
 Jul 2015 saranade
Jasmin
She wanders,
guided by her lost soul.
She spills arts,
coming from her pure heart;
She writes words no one can understand,
yet she speaks it like it was kept in her mind
for so long, just waiting for someone to find it.
She is a masterpiece of her own,
but she has a heart of stone.
 May 2015 saranade
Jonny Angel
I wanted to quit,
but I love
the taste of nicotine
on her pretty full lips.
I'm addicted to kissing her
(cigarettes)
now,
de facto.
 May 2015 saranade
Ella Gwen
you were that second sunrise of this new beginning
you were the time I believed again that I could be winning

we would wake together and we did not sleep apart
and I contemplated whether I was giving you my heart
when you told me words professed never before spoken
and soft sentiment I tried to bury was once more awoken

but you also kept secrets and you recycled your words
and whispered them sweetly in the ears of other birds,
you played the puppeteer, how you loved those sticks
but I've met other magicians and I've seen all their tricks

you loved me (and the others) that you failed to contest
yes but oh, it was me that you loved best?

I am not sorry to have told you that that was uninspired
I've had our moment, true I enjoyed being desired
but this effigy of love you staunchly kept constructing
had flawed foundations your pleasure was deducting.

So this is the truest goodbye that I never did say
what do we live for but love? Yours went astray.
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