F--- Love Poetry

He dabbles; plays with words of lover’s trite,
Like building blocks erected by the books
that pleased the timid, prideful eremite
whose poems flatter glass with homely looks.
He dabbles; writes to sway enticing eyes,
Like dreams of diamonds, gold and silver’s rates
that lace the paper’s white, a fine disguise
where value glows, and worthless imitates.
He dabbles; claims to grasp what love invokes,
Like poetry’s inviting lies and facts
that wooed the girl to leave the poet broke,
for love and poems stick, they don’t attract.
He dabbled wrong; his poetry was fake,
He wrote of lust, not love—his first mistake.