Don't fall in love with a poet by Flashboy10, literature
Literature
Don't fall in love with a poet
Poets are philosophers,
trying to convince others,
they are deep lovers.
But they are hypocritical,
sounding almost political,
always hypothetical
Never sure what to talk about,
they remain always in doubt,
constantly in rout
These love seekers,
those mind readers,
are your secret admirers
I will admit though,
they write with amazing flow,
each poem as thoughtful as mellow
What they say and what they write,
reveals their plight,
to make everything right
Poets will change your mind,
they will help you find,
the truth to any bind
So fall in love with poets and their rhymes,
love the romantic on whose mind you thrive,
admire the one you k
Fire
is beautiful.
Dancing and crackling and
proudly flaunting it's colors.
But fire
is dangerous.
Touch it
and you will jerk away
in pain
and wonder how such brightness
can hurt so much.
Nature
is beautiful.
Wild and free and
bright and colorful and
slow and quiet, all at once.
But nature
is dangerous.
Claws and teeth and
bright eyes
Wild beauty that is easy
to lose yourself in.
Love is beautiful,
or so I have been told.
It makes people happy and
completes them
and they write songs about it.
But love
is dangerous.
It breaks hearts and
kills hope and
sometimes makes you wish
you had never found it.
Beauty is dangerous.
We see it and
we wan
The head obeys the heart,
The heart obeys the soul.
Seems difficult to tell apart,
I can't seem to see the goal.
I draw my conscious deep into the part,
the one remaining oblivious to hurt.
Back into darkness that is my heart,
The final piece stepping up to the court.
Too many stones on my path,
the agony all to great.
The soul did the math,
accepting the last pieces fate.
Liquore bore its way into my mind,
freezing its way down.
Numbing feelings and rendered them blind,
now ice is all i own.
„You can be what you want if you have the will“,
was the wisers parole.
„Train hard to develop the skill“,
I just want to f
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I can no longer hear the music in my head
And the words have started to end.
I can no longer spin phrases from words;
They all end as messy blurs.
I can no longer finish a song
Because it turns out wrong.
I can no longer do it.
Is this the real death of a poet?