I’m locking away all my metaphors
Packing up all these stupid similes.
My rhymes and I are
                          Out.

No doubt can bail me out
From this decision.
Blinded by illusions
Of sincerity
Happy hyperboles of fidelity
Reality
Rips my pages
To shreds.

My personifications are
Dead.
Like my underfed heart.
Part
of me
will remain
As lifeless as this page.

Don’t let my pentameters
Hold you back.
Let my lyrics liberate you.
Revel in this
                                drop
Our rhyme was only ever an end stop.

Here is your conclusion.
Your last allusion
True
Because
No matter what you do,

                                             No girl will ever again write poems for you.