You poets suck as psychologist
She gently sooths my soul with a quixotic grasp
Yet she’s a ruthless (use imagination)
Her emotions unstable like pitches in opera
She teases touching and leaving like breezes
Love works like God…in mysteries
I read faultless poems by my elder poets
My heart temper tantrums from elaborate adjectives use to describe her
My eyes bleed, squinting wishing they never laid pupils on these poems
Reading poems of confusion from elders
Poems based of melancholic love tragedies
Passion filled tragic that plagues me in an immature form
How naïve to believe that adults would’ve figured her out
My peripheral vision fights over the red X button and the next poem button
The X button wins.
No one can figure out the depths of love.
Thanks for nothing.
Love and peace.