Worst Love Poem Ever Written

I suck at dying poems Chemo poems, Metastatic Cancer poems, Hair falling out in the shower poems And I told a half truth When I told you I could write you one In less than six months (It's been eight) I apologize for being so late I wanted your poem to be pink and graceful Like those ribbons I see all over the internet Filled with cheesy generic rhymes That could get me hired by Hallmark I just know my metaphors will start melting And that my similes will get all soft I guarantee you the rhyme meter will be off I went to Google And the typed in the word 'happy' Three billion things came up Not a single inference to Breast cancer, hair loss No redirects to mastectomies The only thing research could teach me Is that a good day on chemo Is when your stool doesn't come out tar Black And has no blood in it Or when your urine Smells better on Wednesday Than it did on Tuesday Sleeping less than 12 hours When 24 would be better Still I refuse to finish this poem Without something bright and hopeful And I know I'm doing a horrible job America has more poets Than it does alcoholics And Pot smokers combined And you chose me to be Your Breast Cancer Poet Laureate Trusting me to write a poem About the biggest battle in your life And don't think I didn't notice your Facebook activity Had decreased by 88% In the last three months And you aren't really Coming to any more of my poetry shows Ever again. Are you?? But we still have January, February And how do you write A Breast Cancer poem With no references to breast (I get embarrassed) That would be some kind of Oxymoron I guess But even if you had one breast Or no breast or if you had less hair than I do I promise to look only in your eyes And never ever even notice Or even think about it And never for a moment Would I feel sorry for you Yes I suck at lying too... But I don't suck at loving you Or at hoping you wake up tomorrow morning With no Cancer at all And that The Eiffel Tower will be right outside Your bedroom window... And I would be right there with you Holding your hand while we look down on Paris And you can impress me with your French again And if I ever make it To the Pulitzer Poetry board I might lose a thousand points Just for this poem alone And my hopes for the prize will be smitten And some old person with white hair will say That this was the worst love poem ever written