You deserve a better poem,
Not that vomitus tripe.
A tender echo of my love:
The dewy, flowery type.
Perhaps a soaring sonnet,
With clever turns of phrase,
Pronouncing deep affection,
Until my dying days.
Compare you to the sunrise?
Or roses in their bloom?
Strung together metaphors
Bemoaning true love’s doom?
I wish I had it in me;
My own brain stops me dead.
The words I strive to muster
Just clank around instead.
Forgive this poor apology,
This self-indulgent scree,
And all the silly nonsense
My poetry can be.
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