shall i compare myself to others every day?
they are more charming, and more talented:
tough luck does take its toll; often too hefty to pay,
and the bill of regrets is way past its due date;
sometimes too hot the baton of pride burns inside,
and often in a sea of mediocrity naked, i swim;
and every ball from ball sometimes drops,
by a poet in his underpants, and *****, untrimm’d;
but my eternal hard-on shall not fade,
nor lose faith inside the hole i bore’st;
nor shall spite keep me from dues unpaid,
when that eternal hard-on in time so grow’st:
so long as i can sing, profoundly and care-free,
so long lives this - it’s a fun read, won’t you agree?

In a faraway place and faraway time
stood square a cabin rotted pine and bramble flue.
Once haven for old crones craven - their skins thin-skinned slivers of brine;
now nary a soot line marked a witches' brew.

In the dark, swirling silver stark and creatures would quiver
held over ***-stew thither, along hymns of damning chanted.
Waggled tongues with an evil glaze would slither,
cursing in eye, toe, and liver the bubbling broth decanted.

Oh a malkin giggled and a paddock piggled;
sniggled in a mirth-marked cauldron's rubble double bubble.
With a whoosh and a swish a bony finger had wiggled,
as papery skin withered the drubble swuddle brubble.

On those blackest of nights, when wolves would fear the moon,
howls held loomed, choked on down the throat of dusk.
Hatred uttered its sleepy breath, pitch-entombed
and justice marooned under a tar most brusque.

Shadows danced incantation
for an occultish creation, oh the devil's bidding be done!
Flamed carnation, neither here nor there god-fearing,
cackling a primrose coronation; the stirring spoon spun!

Death-catcher chimes hung close upon the entry;
a dust since turn of century marred bone;
witches’ wart-encrusted noses crinkled at gentry;
chenille voices sung with celerity a hellish praise: Divinum Occultum.

A little duende ran down the cauldron,
gloom chanting a chant come out with a hurl.
Burnt feet chasing away all ghosts ‘n goblins,
unfurling like whisper from the concoction:

Doom upon all the world.

There’re so many sad love poems around here.
If you guys need help negotiating love’s slippery *****,
let me offer you, your own, romantic horoscope!:

Don’t court romantic disaster
don’t mistake a lightbulb for the moon
Titanic wasn't a rom com

and a sad update:
Grand romantic gestures don’t happen anymore,
you're lucky to get a vibration in our pocket with a "sorry" text

I know what you're thinking though, “We didn’t know the moon was useless until we landed on it,” but once you’ve ‘landed’ on a guy (or girl), once or twice, it’s too late—you’re likely ‘in it.’

Big picture-wise, I think we all have Shakespeare to thank for unrealistic, romantic storylines. Romeo & Juliet are the perfect example—they meet, fall in love and marry the very next day.

In Shakespeare’s defense though, love in his world-building was always messy and imperfect, and there were few "happily ever after" narratives. (The exception being Beatrice and Benedick, in ‘Much Ado About Nothing’).

In a side note, my weekly horoscope (Libra) for the Thanksgiving holiday reads:
“You’ve become so self-centered, It’s all about you. What about your family? Before you go emo and angry, change your perspective—own it—strive to improve relationships.”
Sarsh (so harsh), in this writer’s opinion.
.
.
(Songs for this):
Love Is In Town by Brenda Boykin
Do You Even Know? by Rae Morris

“O, who hath done this deed?”
        
“Nobody, I myself. Farewell./Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell” ~ Othello V.ii
            
                                     *

The day my dad built my new bed, I cried for hours.
At last, a frame that will lift me up,
Not force me down.
At last, a frame that was fit for purpose.

No more hiding from the monster that lived underneath,
overhead and
in-between my sheets.

Somewhere to lie in without being lied to.

            (It’s just a bed, but it’s a safe place to rest my head.)

Somewhere to peacefully retire, not hastily retreat.

            (It’s just a bed, but it’s without him, so it’s without sin.)

There used to be so much silence after all the violence
          “And yet, she must die.”
You could use the very knife my life rested on to
Cut the tension in the room.

But now, Sweet Desdemona!
Now your rest is due.
He took your every breath away but
His chaos could not consume
Your famous last words.
He cannot reach you in your eternal sleep.

For months, I have thought you lucky, and envied your fate.
But now, at long last, I have found comfort in my own bed frame.

In the middle of midnight,
     night and morning kiss and part;
parting is such sweet sorrow.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
T̶h̶o̶u̶ a̶r̶t̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶ l̶o̶v̶e̶l̶y̶ a̶n̶d̶ m̶o̶r̶e̶ t̶e̶m̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶:̶
R̶o̶u̶g̶h̶ w̶i̶n̶d̶s̶ d̶o̶ s̶h̶a̶k̶e̶ t̶h̶e̶ d̶a̶r̶l̶i̶n̶g̶ b̶u̶d̶s̶ o̶f̶ M̶a̶y̶,
A̶n̶d̶ s̶u̶m̶m̶e̶r̶’s̶ l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶ h̶a̶t̶h̶ a̶l̶l̶ t̶o̶o̶ s̶h̶o̶r̶t̶ a̶ d̶a̶t̶e̶;̶
S̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ t̶o̶o̶ h̶o̶t̶ t̶h̶e̶ e̶y̶e̶ o̶f̶ h̶e̶a̶v̶e̶n̶ s̶h̶i̶n̶e̶s̶,
A̶n̶d̶ o̶f̶t̶e̶n̶ i̶s̶ h̶i̶s̶ g̶o̶l̶d̶ c̶o̶m̶p̶l̶e̶x̶i̶o̶n̶ d̶i̶m̶m̶'d̶;̶
A̶n̶d̶ e̶v̶e̶r̶y̶ f̶a̶i̶r̶ f̶r̶o̶m̶ f̶a̶i̶r̶ s̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ d̶e̶c̶l̶i̶n̶e̶s̶,
B̶y̶ c̶h̶a̶n̶c̶e̶ o̶r̶ n̶a̶t̶u̶r̶e̶’s̶ c̶h̶a̶n̶g̶i̶n̶g̶ c̶o̶u̶r̶s̶e̶ u̶n̶t̶r̶i̶m̶m̶'d̶;̶
B̶u̶t̶ t̶h̶y̶ e̶t̶e̶r̶n̶a̶l̶ s̶u̶m̶m̶e̶r̶ s̶h̶a̶l̶l̶ n̶o̶t̶ f̶a̶d̶e̶,
N̶o̶r̶ l̶o̶s̶e̶ p̶o̶s̶s̶e̶s̶s̶i̶o̶n̶ o̶f̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ f̶a̶i̶r̶ t̶h̶o̶u̶ o̶w̶’s̶t̶;̶
Nor̶ s̶h̶a̶l̶l̶ d̶e̶a̶t̶h̶ b̶r̶a̶g̶ t̶h̶o̶u̶ w̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶’s̶t̶ i̶n̶ h̶i̶s̶ s̶h̶a̶d̶e̶,
W̶h̶e̶n̶ i̶n̶ e̶t̶e̶r̶n̶a̶l̶ l̶i̶n̶e̶s̶ t̶o̶ t̶i̶m̶e̶ t̶h̶o̶u̶ g̶r̶o̶w̶’s̶t̶:̶    
     S̶o̶ l̶o̶n̶g̶ a̶s̶ m̶e̶n̶ c̶a̶n̶ b̶r̶e̶a̶t̶h̶e̶ o̶r̶ e̶y̶e̶s̶ c̶a̶n̶ s̶e̶e̶,    
     S̶o̶ l̶o̶n̶g̶ l̶i̶v̶e̶s̶ t̶h̶i̶s̶, a̶n̶d̶ t̶h̶i̶s̶ g̶i̶v̶e̶s̶ l̶i̶f̶e̶ t̶o̶ t̶h̶e̶e̶.

We're fishes in the internet
Caught in the catch of net the day.
The smartest smartphones place a bet
That some night soon you'll meet a gray.
A U.F.O. (or, as they say
In England Land, a yoofo) flies
From where sweet baby scarecrows play
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

While sweating drops of acid sweat,
A cyborg prays away the gay.
A covid sneeze that's extra wet
Is heading thine iambic way.
Tuberculariaceae......
Is the password!  You win the prize!!
Ride on a rocket to Mars, crochet,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

If you should dance a minuet,
Throw in a twerk for Claude Monet.
I fly around a jumbo jet
While crying, "Climate change!  Obey!!"
Unqualified I fly (hooray!)
A plane that fails hardwarewise.  
Olympic athletes play croquet
And eye the stars with googly eyes.

Enjoy a ride in Santa's sleigh
Before you make your reindeer pies.
Do shake the darling buds of May,
And eye the stars with googly eyes.