You Poets Suck As Psychologist

First chapter: 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 2nd chapter: 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 Final chapter: 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.