Thirty one lines
Is all I need
To satisfy the poet in me
The creative, but repetitive side
That no one needs to see
**** satisfying it
It hasn't helped me cope
With love, loss, and sanity
Or even anger, sadness, and hope
It's only helped itself
My voice doesn't even want to be involved
It just mumbles and mispronounces words
Like a ****
And my heart rate increases
Around any girl it finds viable
For love, loss, and sanity
For what my poet side should have been doing
My overthinking hinders wit
And compliments
Instead to people I barely know
By me just being polite
**** that definition
**** everything about love now
I never knew what it meant
And I've destroyed the word
Burnt it to the ground
By rambling on about the same girl
That I ruined
And who ruined me
Actually, probably only the second part
Although I'm sure I helped her