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're searching for
person unidentified: mystery of each missing poem
a person to cover their bedroom walls
they cannot love something that is in their head
Poets are the loneliest of all people;
they write to immortalize what has long past,
to live within their words but not in reality
-in short, they are just lost souls writing suicide notes and proclaiming it art
YOU ARE READING
drafts of yesterday
PoesíaA collection of poems // "I'm nothing but shambles and the words I can't write."
