Guilty as charged

A poet once said, Never trust blood with, traces of ink. Never trust the hand, that holds the pen. Poets? We’re Liars. Your Honour, I’m guilty, I know. My crime? Obsession. I have a problem, I admit. Everyone, does. How art thou so different from me? Obsession is a ravishing, hunt for satiation, this adoration, you, never got, (Was I never enough?) Obsession is a beautiful lad, of 25, Sharp claws, (in hindsight) that sucks out purpose, with a mere handshake. Obsession has pearly whites, that gets you dreamy (Why aren’t mine like that?) Lost in a daze for weeks, Faux dopamine, perchance? Obsession uses metaphors, Articulate words, Fancy accents, Rich cologne, And wallets full of cash Capitalist, enough? (But you’re hypnotizing me) Obsession made me, smile with, gut-wrenching pain, as he drew out blood.