You are not
a sonnet
a love poem
an E.E.Cummings
inked in
abstract, charcoal
dreams

you're not a great poem
written by a great man

or a beautiful
cadence of
words that
flow so softly
from page to page

you're damaged
and troubled
and completely
unsettled
and the way I crave you
is annoying, at best,
and you're a mess of
fractured
sentences
straight-forward
predictable
unwieldy
phrases
and I
can't
stand
how much I
love you
in protest