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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.