Fall for a poet because-
She will place her soft, tense lips upon your flesh and it will cause a burning sensation like no other
( due to the most beautiful poetry being engraved upon you. Quite like a tattoo )

//

Fall for a poet because-
Her words will possess such power.
The power to erupt volcanoes within you
( also she will know how to cause earthquakes that cause violent storms  which result in storms blazing hard in your very eyes )

//

Fall for a poet because-
I gurentee you that you will never find a raw-er form a love. A love that is so kind and so pure
( a love that has the potential to wreck beautiful art or create breathing trees )

//

Do yourself a favour darling,
Fall for a poet because-
Pieces of you will now be found in all that she creates.

homepage flooded
with poetry written
on topics such as
suicide,
hate,
harm,
loss,
pain
&
death;
we like it
and scroll down
we repost it
keep scrolling
we add it to our collection
and just like that
moments later
words forgotten
moved on
"next poem, please"
as if the poem
existed without
a person in pain
backing it up
as if behind the words
there was no soul
cracking at the seams
as if the poem itself
held more significance
than the (wo)man behind the pen

the least we could do
is acknowledge the existence
of the broken poet
behind the beautifully saddening poem

She loves blood-red poppies for a garden to walk in.
In a loose white gown she walks
          and a new child tugs at cords in her body.
Her head to the west at evening when the dew is creeping,
A shudder of gladness runs in her bones and torsal fiber:
She loves blood-red poppies for a garden to walk in.

Shoulder blades collapse;
Burdens seemingly falter.
Let the hours beware.

O
The Who
belted out adolescent
stress
through edgy
guitar riffs
like they still had
pimples
long after they
became
famous.

And me
I
I
often forget
that
I'm
I'm
supposed to be
becoming
a
Man
or something
like that.

My hands are bleeding surely:
my guitar pick isn't my fingers
but soon I'll write these nonsensicals
in blood. But nobody should scream
out for that. Nobody should buy
my words like rock-albums.
Nobody should ask Who
is he and Who
am I because

me
I
I
often forget
that
I'm
I'm
supposed to be
becoming
a
Man
or something
like that.

While
The Who
O
The Who
belt out
out adolescent
stress
through edgy
guitar riffs
like they still have
pimples
long after  
becoming
famous

like Who?

The poet stirs the
rain drops, the sky bends and folds
an old cat stretches.

neon light of slow
revolving doors in this
dumb, silent sleep

You want to drag me to the Sea
I want to write poetry
'It's too late for such a trip today'
I say & sip my tea
You still want to drag me to the Sea