What's wrong with writing poems
about getting over someone
but still loving who they were?

What's wrong with writing poems
that are vague glimpses into
the things we share (̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸a̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸n­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸d̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸t̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸h̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸e̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸k̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸i̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸s̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸s̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸w̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸e̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸s̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸h̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸a̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸r̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸e̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸d̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸)̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸

I'm­ sorry for crossing out my thoughts
but that's what I do now
and I have someone else

But I like writing to you
because I know you like writing to me
so there's really
nothing wrong
when you
and I
keep writing
Passive-aggressive L̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ᴏ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ᴠ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ᴇ̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸­̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸­̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶­̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷­̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸̸̶̷̸ Poems

Never fall in love with a poet
for their words are sometimes lies
on occasions they're a shield
on occasions a disguise

They will take you on a journey
upon which they bare their soul
in a bid to ease your burdens
in a bid to make you whole

But in every word they choose
for the stories that they tell
lies a little piece of heaven
and a little piece of hell

Tormented souls we poets are
sometimes quite broken and despaired
in search of lost expressions
missed by others who once cared

Never fall in love with a poet
unless you're prepared to share their pain
to hold them close on the darkest nights
over and again