Point Blank.
I refuse.
Full stop.
You can’t make me.
I decline to enter in
To any detailed verse.
The structure will elude me,
The content will delude me,
The outcome will exclude me,
The resulting lines a curse.
I will not record in word or sentence
How I feel about you.
(Not that I feel anyway about you actually.)
I will not state in passage on page
That I cannot live with out you.
(Or anyone else for that matter.)
I refuse to debase myself
In public at your shrine.
(Not that I do in private, don’t get ideas.)
I will not list the things
I love about you line by line
(Not that there’s anything I love about you – honestly.)
I will not open up my soul
To refusal or rejection.
(Not that I have a soul you know.)
The outcome of those words
The cause of my dejection.
(If I said or believed them.)
Unless you looked at me
The way you do,
Or smiled at me
Like only you
Know how.
And told me you loved me.
In which case I would
Fall upon the floor before you,
Admit to all that I adore you,
To love me back I would implore you,
And kick myself for giving it all away.
So I refuse,
Point blank,
Full stop.
To write a love poem.
You can’t make me.