I ruined many poems, writing to you,
pathetically trying to win you back
with bitterness and anger, enough
to ruin my social reputation, too.
The bounty sours, excess now a lack.
I know singers have that happy era,
young, writing song after amazing song;
but the personality in the spotlight unravels,
too much becomes known, and talent dies
in the face of accusation, as wrong fails to overcome wrong.
Wrong vibrates with wrong—he tries
to capture innocence. You can’t capture innocence;
it just is. A new smile now makes us wince.
This happened to me. A poet will control
everything. The part gathers to a whole.
It only takes one line to betray
my cowardly actions today,
the sneer, the fat, rotting soul.
What happened to our love?
Was it artificial from the start? Was it never meant to be?
Did it—did it—ruin every last piece of our integrity?
Last night you let train after train pass by
remaining in a dark corner of the station to cry.
But today you are fine. You smile
at my poems, rotting in their sentiment and style.