A few days ago I was thinking that I should probably post a poem here.
So I chose the following.
It’s something I wrote two or three months ago I think. I hope you like it.

Poets are weird.
And truthful.
And they burn.
They’ll talk about how the stain of red wine
on your white, white shirt
could be the blood from your wounded heart.
They’ll laugh,
steal your pen,
and then scribble things about misery in metaphors.
Poets have no use of coasters,
desk blotters
and erasers.
To them, mistakes are so fucking useful.
If you ask them,
they’ll tell you why
she left,
why he wrote that letter,
and why the photo frame was shattered when you got home.
Make sure you don’t believe them.
Poets are messy hair and crumpled paper
empty houses and cluttered rooms
and a secret notebook everybody knows about.
Look closely.
Look again.
Don’t blame me if you fall.

Thank you for reading through this post.
Until We Meet Again.


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