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
And pour out your thoughts on love
With bad rhyming and questionable syncopation.  
Poem after poem after poem
“I feel his hands upon my neck”,
“When you’re gone I am a wreck”,
And I sit there, on that itchy green sofa and wish
With every single bone in my body,
Going past the bones and wishing with every inch of myself,
That I was anywhere but here.