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I. This is just another bad poem Just vomited-thoughts-left-on-paper poem This is a collection of grammatical errors This would surely make my English teacher cringe But no worries, I didn’t write this for her II. This bad poem is for you May my subject and verb disagreement remind you of all those misunderstandings that lead to raised voices and nights where I cried myself to sleep Sentence construction was never my strength, it still isn’t, maybe that’s why you never truly understood me— called me difficult and bipolar You said that I was too much Did it ever occur to you that you might just misread me, like homonyms, same words but with different meanings misread my jealousy with accusations, my concern for excessive affection You said that I loved you too much but darling, did you even love me at all? Did I put too much meaning on your words, turned them into similes and metaphors? Turned your literal statements into figures of speech You told me that you liked me, so I blissfully interpreted it as a hyperbolic expression— called it love when obviously it wasn’t III. I was never good at using punctuations I put too much commas, unnecessary, misused, I kept trying to hold on Afraid of the inevitable end, Switched to semi-colons in an attempt to make it a few words longer Because despite all our grammatical errors no matter how shameful our piece of literature was to the English language It was beautiful to the untrained eye, To those who read poetry as it is To those who don’t dig deep in search of true meaning behind the metaphors It was beautiful to me But I eventually learned that infinitives and infinities are different, in spite of sharing infinite as the root word Like our love, started with something so promising but unlike most novels, there’s no happy ending So I accepted defeat, accepted the inevitable and bitter end No more committing the same mistakes over and over again, the same words over and over again, Accepted the fact that synonyms existed, words with the same meaning but also entirely different new and unfamiliar, foreign and peculiar IV. I accepted defeat No more commas or semi-colons We have reached the couplet of our free formed sonnet— I was never good with endings, I don’t think I’ll ever be, So darling I hand you the pen, set us both free.

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