I cannot impress a poet

You were amazing, I’d like to think so.
While you constantly scorned your finest poems
I’d squander on the disincentive ruins of a thoughtless mind
coaxing my envy to calm.
I longed to see what you saw and how you saw it.
You became the conquest,
the prize of my eyes, to affection’s surprise.
I started playing with words and sentences I had never read nor said before,
reading Plath and Baudelaire to join in your mind’s conversation.
Always striving to surpass your expectations of me, expecting nothing.
I gazed at you often, marveling at your squalor as if it held great significance.
Infatuated with your capricious mind, your pathetic whims, I craved for your approval.
For you, were the idol.
A far cry from the adolescent shell of a man that I cocooned in.
Jealousy would eventually consume me.
No manner of abuse or lust could explain
this psychotic affection towards your promiscuous apathy.
I started writing poems because of you, they were never any good.
I feared my crudity; you liked them all.
You always knew what they spoke of and I could never imagine yours.
But to you every opinion mattered.
The truth was still writing itself in your mind when you chose to fritter away
fornicating on all fours secretly, desperately, looking for the one.
Would you give it all up to write again?
I apologize for not telling you.
You were my first poem.
I couldn’t impress you.