Love poems don’t work.
When I write them I
Gush, with overwhelming (underfelt)
And common emotion, that looks like
A paper heart, placed over cheap chocolates,
That are fittingly brown and smelly.
And when I write happy,
Roses are red like hearts,
And tears are joyous crystals,
And when I write sad,
Roses become scarlet, blood-red (still like hearts)
And there are no more tears,
Because crystal-like as they were,
Some pillock stole them.
Then there’s always the problem that I,
(Spotty, inexperienced kid with bad hair day)
Don’t know of what I speak,
I’ve never written or received a tear-stained letter,
Smelling slightly of rose-water,
I’ve never poured my heart out,
To an uncaring bitch,
Never wondering how exactly a heart can be poured
(Her underwear would be blood-stained surely?).
So what exactly should I write?
I don’t see how a girl can be like a Summer’s Day,
Or love can be like a hundred and one humdrums.
So should I compare my heart to the spots on my face?
Both red, both hurting,
But only one slick and unpleasantly greasy.
Both bursting when I see your face,
Spewing forth my love.
Like I did the first night I drank beer.
Then in the morning,
The hangover hammering on my temples,
Splitting with a chisel, the average from inspiration,
So that I wrote a poem of love,
Mine for you,
Complete with metaphor, simile,
And me an (oxy) moron,
Perfumed with the delicate scent
Of stale beer and feelings.
My love poem did not work.
This is not a love poem.