It is an opinion that I have oft' expressed
to family and friends
that love poems are the epicenter
of the stereotypical romantic cliche.

The problem with someone like myself
expressing such a thought
is that I have no basis of comparison
to determine the worth of such a poem.

You see, in my experience, such things
can be correctly valued
only by those who have an objective
understanding of love and poetry both.

I, unlike most, have not the credentials
to evaluate either
since I am a novice in one
and greatly biased in the other.

There is the possibility that jealousy
is the root of this view
since I have not experienced love
and cannot poetically imitate such passion.

Lonesomeness breeds bitterness
breeds loathing
breeds scorn, and ridicule, and
I cannot honestly deny these in myself.

Love poems, I admit, are quite beautiful
though equally painful
odes to a complexity far beyond
the realm of my limited understanding.

It is an opinion that I have oft' expressed
to family and friends
that love poems are the epicenter
of the stereotypical romantic cliche.

Which, I suppose, is not really a bad thing.

h.f.m.

noun

1. sharp teeth, fluttering hands, heart of a dying star— icarus himself could not imagine the heights you have climbed or your glorious, blazing fall. your bones are burning, your bones are ash, scattered across this never-place between life and death and eternal limbo.

2. you're permanently damaged, but it's fine, you're fine. you can always expect a myriad of scars to accompany the trauma. it's not like it's anything new, either. at least if you burn you might be able to take this unkind world down with you.

3. the inferno surrounding you dances with deadly beauty. and as we all know, beautiful things are lethal.

4. you understand you are a liability?

5. you don't want to go back to that dark place in your mind again. it would be better to be mere cinders.

h.f.m.