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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."
OpenWorldView Jan 15
... I may calm my fear
and unseen horror
with words light and clear.

... I may ease my pain
and tend gaping wounds
with verses of healing rain.

... I may release my rage
and spark fiery storms
of rhymes that burn the page.

And maybe, one day
I write about love's joy
in a dazzling lyric play.
Let it all out. One day I may find better words.
tragedies - an heir to all
the mess inside those walls
i can still recall

lunged in anger, seized with fear
oh, what have you done
i tried to leave the thoughts behind
but i couldn't run

black silhouettes, tragic memories
now i'm in constant doubt
am i ready for this?
sunprincess Jan 9
Three birds of a family writing poetry
One bird writing about his friends
Another writing of blue birds in trees
And one bird writes of birds and bees
Birds writing together stay together
Aman Dahiya Jan 6
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.
she was gone

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.
Struggle against change
Lines rare to intersect.
However, climbing a peak wouldn’t warrant to overwhelm backwards.

Order avoids ripples.
Leeches overtake you
Why begin if ending isn’t ideal? More Clusters around

Bends grow Hair
Darkness patterned consumes.
Every bonded by Pin. The Divide shall overlap despite.
A Prose story about me, and an estranged writer I still don't talk to. And my attempt to contact them.
Tammy M Darby Dec 2018
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

@ copyright Tammy M Darby Dec. 29, 2018.
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