a wise man once said that to me
simply because i was sixteen
and couldn't have possibly known what love was
or at least not of the love that merited odes and immortalization.

it's like giving up too much of what you don't have
to fill a blank canvas
how could i have possibly known what love was at sixteen?
i did know it
or i knew enough to write you stories.

these are the verses written by my own frustration—
this is my music whether you hear it or not.
and all i could ever dream about at sixteen
was one day getting stories in return
as a token of total surrender.

at sixteen i knew more than to just trust talk.
i was in love but how ready and willing
were you to fall into writing me anything?

you don't write me love poems
because you can't feel with words yet.
you could say you'll write me a thousand verses,
but your honey sweet talk isn't real
until it hits the paper.

'...don't write love poems.'