This is a poem basically explaining what the inspiration of most of my poems has done to me.

You and I were like peas and carrots.

I could smell you on all of my clothes because you would never let me go.

Long summer naps and baking together were all I ever looked forward to.

Now I spend every Saturday night sipping on 151, hoping that a girl half as pretty as you will have meaningless sex with me so that I can wash away your laugh.

This is what you're doing to me, in case you didn't know.

I used to want to be something, but now I'm alone and have no desire to be anything.

I used to want to love, but now I realize that love is just a word that flower shops and greeting card manufacturers made up so that they could make millions of dollars. 

I realize that love is only real in movies and is the prime reason John Cuzack makes so much money.

If it weren't for love, I wouldn't be sitting here with a heavy heart that's wearing down on the balls of my feet, and I wouldn't wake up every sunday morning with a pounding headache, cracked lips, and a lump in my throat.

The End

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