I’m Sick of Writing Love Poems

Look the sun is coming up
And I haven’t written a damn thing of any consequence.
And it’s not me it’s you.
You’re too stimulating.

It’s painful,
Like the shock of a knife in a plug socket,
No that’s too instant,
Like a sickness,
No that’s too cynical.

No, it hurts like every muscle being strained into nothingness.
Like protesting death.
Like a full body hangover.
Like writers block and a head full of stories.
Like uncertainty.
Like knowledge.
Like smiling back devils.
Like finding out your heart has evaporated.
Like evaporating.

It hurts to love you and not say it,
So I’m saying it now,
I love you.
You.
Not some illusion airbrushed like a magazine.
You.
Imperfect,
And human,
And alive,
And exactly what I’m looking for
You.
And I don’t care that it hurts.
And I don’t care that it hurts.

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