I am sick to death of love poems.
So bored of them my heart dries up
at the mention of sweet eyes and longing lips.
All of these old, dead men were crazy.
They must've made it all up,
finding just the right words to string together,
forming a beautiful chord for the heart and mind
to play battle ship over, engorged vessels
enveloped in the deep peaceful blue.
And the victor, oh the victor…
The victor is the champion of dreams and hopes.
But what will these get you, my sweet delirium?
I don't want the high praise and swoons the words
of these dead, beautiful dreamers achieved.
I just need enough money to share a cup
of coffee with you any day.