Poems of selfindulgent love are running through my head
Poems like these of private peeves make me wish I was dead

A metre that sways
in slow rolls
and drags the heart
through sopping towels
when you didn't answer
my text.

For example.

These are the words that are not free flowing,
Their being shaped by the slow eroding
Of "newsfeed" sliding down throats
Into expressing these strange empty emotions,
Projected from screens onto beings,
Rouses in me
A Confusion Profusion.

I am not a hopeless romantic,
Nor am I inviting your listless affection
By a farcical pretense of denial,
Take note.

A life defined by love is,
To me,
Rather silly.

Love is not the goal,
It is however
The mediating language of all really human transactions.