You
are the worst thing that ever happened
to my poetry.
I remember when punching, bitter,
argumentative words just flowed out of me
like the rhythms of a classical piano piece.
I used to be able to write with angst,
biting metaphors and seething rhymes.
But now I can't, 'cause you make me too
happy.
Instead of stories of broken hearts and
never-ending nights,
I'm writing about the stars in the sky,
the rose you left on my doorstep,
how it feels to dance with you under
the rain.
No. This is horrible.
This is like a slap across the face to
my inspiration.
I've started thinking with my heart rather than my mind.
I refuse to let my poetry sink to such lows
as roses are red, violets are blue.
To butterflies in my stomach when I see
you coming toward me.
I find myself writing meaningless metaphors,
abstract thoughts that make you think
I have a more poetic view on life than you do.
No.
Please, help me understand why the worst thing that ever happened to my poetry
is the best thing that ever happened to me.