It’s Hard to Love a Poet

It’s hard to love a poet, I know it’s true,  
because I’ll love you deeply, but never just you.  
I’ll love the pain, the ache in my chest,  
the quiet moments when I can’t find rest.

You’ll think you hold me, but I’m never there,  
lost in a world you can’t touch, I swear.  
I’ll whisper sweet lines, make you feel seen,  
but between the verses, I’ll slip in between.

I bleed my love on pages, not in your arms,  
and you’ll feel like you’re losing to invisible harms.  
You’ll watch me drift, lost in my mind,  
chasing ghosts and shadows you’ll never find.

I romanticize sadness, wear it like skin,  
and you’ll wonder where I end, and the darkness begins.  
You’ll try to save me, pull me in close,  
but poets love what hurts the most.

It’s hard to love a poet, I can’t deny,  
I’ll paint our love with the tears I cry.  
I’ll write about you, then tear you apart,  
because poetry owns more of my heart.

I’ll make you feel special, then pull away,  
hide behind stanzas, keep feelings at bay.  
You’ll love me, but always feel a void,  
because loving a poet is like loving destroyed.

I’ll write you in lines, but never complete,  
we’re a tragedy, and I’m set to repeat.  
You’ll hold out hope, but I’ll burn it down,  
because poets like me will let you drown.

It’s hard to love a poet, we love too hard,  
we break what we hold, we play every card.  
But in the end, we’re broken things too—  
so loving a poet means losing you.