This guy...
This guy who hasn't used a capital letter in like 28 fucking poems.

I can almost hear it,
"I love you, Jon...you're such a brilliant writer."
Over and over like an infomercial starring 16 year old girls in Twilight costumes.
Well, you know what Jon....

I think you're ugly!  
With your metaphors,
sweeping readers under the echo of your endless blanket of romance.
Your free verse,
lumping heart-felt honesty in with a touch of mystery all while driving and talking on your cell phone and melting the emotional walls I've worked so hard to build.
I think I speak for everyone when I say...

"You need to cut that shit out, you are taking all the darkpoetry pussy."

Popular in a sanctuary for misfits?
You're practically a Mexican Papa Smurf!
  Elvis in the land of broken hearts and insomniacs.
     Grey Goose in a room of empty glasses.

But I've seen you, 
flesh and blood,
smelled your breath all coffee and cigarettes.
Heard your voice, scratched and dignified like an aged Eric Cartman,
saying,

"If you ever need anything, I'm always here for you."

Well fuuuuuuck you Six-Out! 
Enticing me for hours with your playful sarcasm.
Looting my punch lines with your swift wit.
Liberating my soul when I was perfectly depressed.

Try walking in my jealous Converse All-Stars.
Try actually having to try to make it look easy.
Try my panties that bunch up in the front when I sleep.
(seriously, will you wear my underwear?)

Mr. makes me wanna puke your so good with....uh....words.
Mr. a billion people are gonna tribute me.
Mr. perfect nipples.

I hate loving you.