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  Oct 2016 Martin Palatický
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. :)
So what is it?
It is the only type of insanity
that's socially accepted.
How much this strive really cost?
I keep asking, but she keeps paralyzing my thoughts.

She stared at me for the longest until she finally asked
''What was this promise you speak of?''
For the temptation and doubt are wounds
and you never reached her.
There are some bottles that cannot be filled enough.
They sit there every day, every night stabbing us and reminding.
All day we try to replenish them, but it wont matter.
Let us go then, you and I
hand in hand
like a father and child
together

everything looked so
promising, early
in the day

drops falling on my head
scent of a coffee mixed
with perfume
in the hall

as we approached the world
with chilly winds on
our faces

we offered our heart,
for the heart is truly
all we had- believed in

but heart was too pure,
too foolish to face
the night

after the heart, we
offered mind, mind
started to judge and
turned back on us
.               .                .
day is slowly turning
into the nite, vapors
of reek is all I see
.                .                .
lastly, we desperately
offered our soul

nothing happened

After the countless
suns and moons
reek turned into mist
sand into grass
we into I
chaos into
serenity

as I am finally leaving
the chase behind
I feel immeasurably
at peace.

— The End —