POETRY IS A MISUNDERSTANDING

I’m domesticated and heartbroken and I don’t know what to do.

I’ve sworn off vices, so I’ll sit down and write another poem to you.

The end of love is the ex you ridicule.

You hate him so much you could love him—if he weren’t such a love struck fool.

There is a passage in Dante’s Vita Nuova, where Dante’s senses leave him

When he sees Beatrice, so that desiring to see her more than anything, he can’t.

That’s exactly how you are to me, who I want.

When you approach, with utmost excitement I see that it’s you,

But eager to really see you I can’t really see anything physical about you which is true

And this is why I need to hold you and kiss you because I want to find out that it’s you

Because I don’t know that it’s you, because it’s you.

Poetry is a misunderstanding.

I’m domesticated and heartbroken and I don’t know what to do.

All I can hope is they love my poem, the millions, when really oh God I only wrote it for you.