Pretentious Poet

A ring on my phone, From my lady Maria! And I answer, Happy to hear her. "My lady Maria, I've missed you so dear!" "It's been less than a day," "Practically a year! Have you read my leaden notebooks, And the spirals of my love? And the way-" She cuts me off, A cruel shove. "My love, your words are like jewellery, That lie dormant on my neck, They sprout in their leave, greenery, That burrow in my skin." "They scrape like rough sandpaper, But they couldn't be beat, Even then they-" "You found them sweet?" "Well they were some form of treat.." "But you thought they were neat?" "I guess that so-" "How so?" "In love they glow, But in your galleries not so-" "But they glew-?" "Glowed, and not quite-" "Oh, but you liked the sight!" A pause and contemplative sigh. "...That right? My metaphors and limericks, flow like ink, sweetheart, rethink!" "Anthony, dearest, The words you write are beautiful, you know it, But you really are, such a pretentious poet!"