I said I don’t do this. poems that behave
that count their beats and beg to sound profound
but here I am the fool you couldn’t save
all rhyme and reason. love still hangin round

I hate this form. it’s polished. cold. confined
like scrubbin blood just so it stains again
I tell myself to leave your heart behind
but every line just drags you back within

it’s gross. it’s soft. it’s not my usual brand
but somethin in me hums the way you do
I’m writin sonnets now…you understand?
what’s next? a ballad? well maybe one or two

so fine. it’s love. you win. I’ll take the shame.
just don’t you dare make me give it a name