“don’t fall in love with a poet”
they love naught but the words
you morph into on a
page, feelings cheapened by
the paper pantheons poets
erect. promise makers and
preachers to and of the
words they create. dusty
typewriters, many unfinished
drafts of lovers both old
and new. you are the question mark,
but can never be the answer.
for one thing a poet can
never do is arrive.
they are searching for
pages to wander, moments to squander,
as each poem points towards what
is missing, wanted posters
searching for what could never be
had. so they continue to write
to immortalize the past or
the pressing future, the missed
glance or tenuous stare before
lips meet. to live within the words,
to be moved by the words,
to experience their loves through
the words until the words become
all there is. all that makes sense.
“don’t fall in love with a poet”
they are the walking dead with
the paradoxical gift of capturing
anyone’s heart but their own.


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