I would not wish poetry upon you,
The world has plenty already,
and your pages are filled with clichés,
Fires in your heart, eyes and chest,
As if your body was a godown of kerosene.
How many baskets have been woven with raw heartstrings,
To smuggle doves and songbirds into impregnable fortresses,
As if only the animals ever learnt to sing of love?
These verses are lips and tongues, smiles and teeth,
Do dentists sponsor your calligraphy?
The moon waxes with love and wanes with desolation,
The poor thing has been contracted into so many narratives
That it seeks a psychiatrist for Personality Disorders.
You are blood in your hands, wounds and tears,
Do you seek to seduce vampires?
You keep smelling flowers, drink the perfumes in her wake,
Are you a dog in a man's skin?
There are drunk nights, the wine on her bosom is the right kind of sweet,
The alcohol of the separation burns into fizzy songs --
Prostitute poetry into a tavern for your weaknesses, why don't you?
And why is every single princess bred with such poor taste
So as to become the ache in the bones of an artist who is clearly devoid of imagination?
Yes, her touch is electricity, her fingers are ionized ropes,
And her kiss makes a lightning rod of your spine.
No wonder you became Frankenstein's monster,
A collage of dead metaphors and collapsed heartbeats.
Go home and write something fresh.