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I looked as you got out from the house
I was suddenly swayed by your manliness
So lovely and rugged in your checkered shirt
Dark beard so scruffy and muscles so rippling.

You slowly walked towards me like a panther
The birds suddenly sang ting a ling a ling ding ****
You slowly stretched your arms and whispered
Huh? But I cannot hear what you say, what is it?

Are you going to **** me at this very moment?
With just your looks you can but I beg you don’t!
You sized me up and down and I was scared but then
Thank goodness you are simply a Lumbersexual.

You opened the zipper of your worn-out jeans
Ooohh! What a huge “hatchet” you have there
You poured everything and I accepted silently
I cannot complain nor retreat for I am just a tree!
Day 6: Write a poem of any length incorporating every word from your latest FB status update in any order.


My FB status is: "ooohh Lumbersexual is in the house"

Thank you lumbersexuals or urban lumberjacks. Why oh why was this my latest FB stat? Gaaaahhh..!! I tried my best tsk tsk...
He told me that he loves you truly
And also he cherishes me dearly
As a friend or as a lover I do not know
I do not want to know –

He has great plans for the future you see
He mentioned to me his wonderful dreams
I do not know if it includes me or not
I do not want to know –

He visits me on Mondays and Thursdays
He said you deserve the weekends
Sundays are for family he told me
What am I then - ?
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. :)
You made a poet fall in love with you
And expected her not to write sonnets about your eyes
Haikus about the way you kissed her in the moonlight
Expected the fire in her heart not to inspire couplets
You made a poet fall in love with you, and when you left
Expected her not to write pages about the ache in her chest
Write a soliloquy dedicated to her tears
Expected her not to feel every gut wrenching moment of the pen hitting paper like your words hit her in the most vulnerable places of her mind.
You made a poet fall in love with you, and you expected her to be silent.
That is no fault of hers.
It was unspoken,
words refused to move.

A silent decision was made,

You'd be seeing less of me,
it was okay as long as everyone was happy.

For the love that never got to live,

It lived again,
Spring thawed.

I was torn away from my love,

As long as you got yours,
I was alright.
This is dedicated to my alter Stormy.
I pity people who don't like reading,
the ones that only see a story without feeling it,
those who cannot immerse themselves in words,
for they aren't truly reading,
to read you have to lose yourself within a character,
disappear into the story,
manage to escape from reality,
to the sanctuary of a story's words,
suspended between worlds,
holding you in its spell,
to read you can't be you,
become someone else,
awaken in a new reality
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