I just read a short poem about why you should date a poet and I’ll tell you every reasons listen had it’s truths, but it also had it’s share of damn and fuck. If you date a poet, a writer or anyone who could write something to make you feel. They’ll find every reason for you to be perfect and not at all, at the same time. I could write about your smile and how it’s my favorite curve. I could write about your smile and relate it to the sun, sunset to sunrise: grins to tears. I could write about your should and how its different- how I’ve never seen anything quite like it. How I’ve never met anyone like you or fell in love with someone this pure, but everything changes. The leaves fall, but if people aren’t leaves and they aren’t flowers, I guess they don’t really wither, they don’t really fall. I could say that your words were the pit of every flame, the lighter fluid oozing into my anger. Love isn’t always happy.
It isn’t. There are ups. There are downs.
You have happy moments.
You have “fuck this shit” moments too.
When you fall in love with a writer,
you don’t think about immortality.
When you fall in love with a poet
and they compare you to celestial bodies-
It’s almost like a big fuck you.
Look, people. People aren’t stars,
but we still write about them
as if they lit up the night.
People feel like stars,
that’s why I write.
Some brighter than others, some twinkling over the city lights, some far, far away-
A light year of pain and regrets.
I just read a short poem about why you should date a poet and I’ll tell you the truth. I hate myself, I hate the letters, I hate the little lies I tell myself. I hate the things I tell myself, so that sleep is close to possible. I hate the four walls of my mind and how empty these tear filed poems seem. How to be more than what you are, but late at night-
The mortality of being just human…
It’s scary.
We make up tales. We read bed time stories. We write metaphors. We think about comparisons to lessen the dulling of how we truly were. We were a mess.
Love is messy. Love is truth.
Love is a liar, but love is real.
We put thoughts and emotions into suck words because it’s the only way we can sleep at night.
I just read a short poem about why you should date a poet and I had to write my reasons as to why you shouldn’t. And it’s the exact same.
Don’t date a poet if you aren't prepared to live forever. Don’t date a poet if you’re human, if you’re grown, if you don’t understand love, if you think that they don’t, because baby, even poets are human. They are flawed. A comparison, the warmth of the sun, a comparison to the cold of the moon- I’m hollowed. I’m cratered. When you fall in love with writers there is a certain level of depth that will bust you open the leaves of your tears- when you fall in love with poet there’s a certain expansion of your soul that delves into the shallowness of how we can’t be more-
So we write
about it all.
So we fall 
in love with it.
Who doesn’t want to be planet?
Who doesn’t want to be searched for by one person in a room filled with people?
That’s the thing.
I’ll always look for him in everyone, 
but the sick truth is-
The truth of all writers, poets and authors.
They are no longer here.
They aren’t.
So we write about you because missing you gave us room to breath, but it also gave us a chance to suffocate because we still remember the smell of your breath- no matter what part of the day, the sweetness blowing from your chest, the way you ruffled up your hair, the way your lips played our favorite instruments, the way we couldn’t be true, the way it had to end this way or it it’s still there and it’s still happening, we write stories and pay that it never ends.. because the truth is… it might.
And that scares us.
So we write.
& we write.
& we write.
& we write.
& we write.
Our love flows through lava peach veins 
and if we could love forever,
if the purity of not knowing 
could solve the world’s hunger
for sex sells and true love-
Writes are the bane of all heartache.
We can make sorrow and feel unreachable.
We can make tomorrow feel possible.
Poets are creators of the sunset and eclipse.
We can make a smile over the sky.
We can make held hands yours.
If you fall in love with a writer, 
if you fall in love with poet-
be careful.
They’ll take you to the crypt.
They’ll take you to the graveyard.
They’ll take you to a coffin.
They’ll take you home.
They’ll take you into poetry.
They’ll take you into a book.
You’ll live there and forever, 
you’ll dance and dance.
We dance with the devil with two left feet
because love isn’t amazing 
all the time-
We blur out the bad times
with how your smile
made up for them-
How the good times
were our favorite memories…
But it doesn’t last.
Not forever. Not always.
Humans breaks.
Humans fold.
Humans wither.
Humans fall.
When I fell in love with a writer, I didn’t know it would come to this, I didn’t know I could become one myself. I didn’t know a thing about poetry. I didn’t know a thing about words. I didn’t know about immortality. I didn’t know I would be stunned for a half a decade. I didn’t know smiles accompany every sunrise. I didn't know pens could write dreams. I didn’t know paper made nice blankets. I didn’t know that by becoming sick an ill fated thinker would mean I would also live forever and just him. It works both way. When you give someone immortality-
You’ll forever too.
And it’s such a terrible fate to be dracula 
with a pen, it’s such a tragedy 
to want to be written into the stars
and city lights, it’s demanding 
and it requires effort to love 
like this and yet-
Here we are, Here you are.
In every sentence.
In every letter.
In every poem.
You can’t ask for death.
You can’t ask for life
You are undying.
You are lifeless.
Just words and poetry,
just letter and books.
Just another good day the break in ink,
just another sad day that didn’t work out.
I know we couldn’t be forever,
but it’s still nice to write about it.
That’s my sin and well,
you provide the pens.
When I fell in love with a writer,
I knew…
That falling in love with a poet,
when you fall in with poetry- 
There may be a chance 
that you may never
return to simple things…
The complexity of being just humans
without the extension of the universe 
reaching into your heart and soul-
Without losing the art of love.