when they tell you, "don't fall in love with a poet," mark their words.
poets love differently than most. we feel differently than most. we fall in love with words as we trace their outline onto your bare skin. we fall for prose, not people.
we'll dream about what it's like to lose you before you're ever gone. we romanticize loss. a heart inflicted is a powerful tool and the passion that flows through our bodies fuels our writer's hand. melancholy was gifted to us.
we express our thoughts best when we write them down as we write you off with nothing left to say. we will leave you br oke n.
"don't fall in love with a poet," they warn, "you'll only ever be their muse."
Words are vile, manipulative. Some say they have the power to change people. Don’t you ever meet those people in their mid-40s suddenly **** bent on this Indian guru and what he talks about? You see, it’s not the words that captivate the eyes of the millions, it’s the person who’s speaking them. Enunciating them with such authoritative tone, gravitating towards himself. That’s the magician! The artist! Same goes for the luxurious Fitzgerald and the troubled Hemingway, and why bland passages of Kafka have their own name : Kafkaesque. You can’t stop them. They’ll always buy the cover. They don’t care about words until they have to appear brainy in front of their friends. I mean whose gonna read this for example? I’m no Bukowski! I’m just a broke man, looking out the monotony of my city from this window, Trying so ******* hard to paint my own dancing stars; And I’m too scared to cut off my **** ear.
before i could even tell her, that her voice was loud enough, and the way she colored me never matched anyone’s.
the missed years and wasted sunsets now sit across the table, mocking me into submission.
there was a lot i could’ve done for her. it now rests upon my shoulder, they form like alien letters and weigh like blood.
the legends are real, listen - i know now. there is nothing heavier than bearing who you were everyday.
this is the year to be free. please please, if you’re still hurting - i hurt with you, and so know that i guess it’s okay to get better. we will get better. happy new year, poets. may our love never die.
Does the true being of self to consciousness cling Disappearing suddenly when reality so elusive sings Pride covet words in anticipation of the ultimate ascension Daring to imperil it all for ink and pen Ignoring the warnings A poets world rarely mentioned
We discard with little effort what imparts to us conventionality and vague interest Desiring instead to reminisce on that which tortures and haunts us It is by choice we reside freely and roam in unknown dimensions Artists of our experiences A poets world rarely mentioned
Many will condemn with ridicule and scorn Those who exist in the universe of the word As we climb the stairs to the dreamworld Closed to those deficit in imagination Only the ingenious may enter Virtuosos of the mind and heart A poets world rarely mentioned