Guys write poems about girls;

girls with eyes like diamonds,

girls with lips like crimson,

girls with hair like silk.

 

No man writes poetry for me.

 

Instead, my pen glides smoothly;

turning feelings into ink,

converting visual memory into

written, spoken word.

 

They say the pen is mightier than the sword,

well, can he feel me stabbing him?

Can he feel each slash; does it cut him?

Or does it just cut me?

 

I watch my poems burn,

watch cursive letters melt,

watch masterpieces die,

watch embers of bitter love swirl.

 

I hate poetry.

 

I hate poetry, and I hate him.