Offensive Time!

I don’t

Like

Love poems.

I don’t like ‘em

And it’s not for lack of love

The ability to love

I have

But I never see the feelings

Those pleading, burning feelings

That poetry entwines

Inside sweet, perfumed words

Returned

Without a second’s

Doubt

Returned

Without a frown and a shrug

Love is not a tennis match

Unless you play

Against yourself

And leap and bound to and fro

Across the court

In order to catch that flailing ball

In order to catch your thumping heart

And send it back your proper way

Love is not a poem

It is a stain upon white linens

A black inky river that scorches the starch

And it blinks with such innocent

Such naïve wedded bliss

That promises life

And love

And happiness

It is no binding contract

It is no words of eternity

It is you

Yourself

And all alone

You feed them scrumptious poetry

Spoon feed them printed hearts

And they swallow it

With lumps in their eyes

They can’t see

How smooth

You’d love to make it

They cannot provide you with passion

But you pretend they always have

And to convince yourself

Of their fervor

Of your paralyzed poor heart

Of that needle that they hold

You write yourself

A love poem.

.me.