Don't read this poem.
You're not going to like it.
You're going to aren't you?
No?
Well good for you.
This isn't going to be very worthwhile.
But if you insist...
I'll tell my story.
It's your funeral.
I let myself be led by my heart
and it got crushed.
It was like beating a dead horse
with a stick
then tossing it off a
twenty-five story building.
Look out below!
Splat, on the
ice black asphalt
run over by a taxi.
This unforgiving love of mine.
This poem is horrible.
All this vague talk of love.
If I was a poet
I'd quit.
No questions asked.
Turn in my resignation letter
to you all.
Thankfully,
I am not a poet.
OK.
Let's get back on track.
Get this going once
more.
Where were we?
You put yourself out
on the fake limb.
Only to cut it down
by your own hand.
Tumbling down
down
down
down
with baby and all.
Wait,
what the hell is a baby doing up
here?
This doesn't even make sense anymore.
I've gone from bad to
worse.
Luckily,
I'm content with that.
Content with the love I
have to make due.
No sappy sonnets.
Only me.
Trying to write a love poem.