jeurs

I hate love poems. I am sick to death with, "How soft are his lips", "The curve of her hips", I don't want to hear about these fallacies you build up in your head, And write in your little black book to show your friends, Pretending you're some great poet. The world is filled with billions of topics, and yet, Nine times out of ten, Amateurs, with their books of words And rhyming dictionaries, Chose to write about an emotion, a fear of loneliness. "Her golden hair", "His chocolate stare", I can't take it anymore. One at a time, you march onto stage, and squint in the glaring spotlight As you smile at the faceless, dark audience