My poetry has gone to ****.
I've been sitting here sulking over sheets of notebook paper
  with thoughts in my head about boys and their beds.
I'm a spool of thread, tightly wound, until you pull the right end,
  and the entire amount unravels and rolls to the ground.

I am confused as to why I choose to continue wrapping myself in illusion.
I know the conclusion.
It's as if I've been reading the same book for days and days,
  but its cover changed,
  and I still pick it up anyway, as if the ending won't be the same.

Sheets and sweat and morning *** are highly overrated,
    unless we're sedated, or our hearts are somehow related to our bodies.
But they all want me,
      and its getting quite redundant
      'cause I can't find it in me to love them.
Even when I do, it's too good to be true
  and I'm back with a pen in my hand rewriting the same poem I wrote before,
  and the time before that.

Everybody knows that love poems are just corny, boring, complicated stories,
  so spare us the glory and get to the gory, 'cause it all ends in war.
Skip the detour, and forward to the part where we're bleeding on the floor,
  or to when you're calling me a *****, 'cause I'm bored with your facade,
  and wont ******* anymore.

It's so **** bleak and predictable,
  and I'm far too intelligent to fall into such drama.
But I do.
And that is something no amount of rhyming couplets can change or explain.
So I'll stop trying to.