he, pressuring me to forever con-coct,
and con-duct rancid emotional con-structs
for the evolution of his poetic outlet,
i, his dis-regarded poetic object.
he, using me, and abusing me….
callously beckoning me from his cerebrum cortex,
all for the sake of appeasing his selfish poetic outlet…

he, being incessantly anal with respect to our literary output,
and the cause and effect on our reader’s outlooks;
demanding that i con-duct myself poetic-ally,
in the way of classic artistry,
(the way that a true lady should),
in order to drop libations worthy of his poetic entreaties,
for otherwise – he would abruptly discard me;

i, forever feeding him my ten starred poetic cuisine,
to appease his gluttonous hunger with appetizing precision;
he devouring my rhymes, and passionate poetic outcries,
naïvely trusting that i would feed him no bitten renditions,
as i tease and lure him with the enticing smell of concepts yet to cum;
enhancing his poetic senses with perfected alliterative melodies,
and dropping non-disjoined harmonies for his a-muse-ment,
or sometimes…14 lined strained sonnets fraught with
intricately intertwined iambic meters
of ab-ab, or ac-bd, or cockily spittin’ and
tossing haughty haiku’s at his poetic leisure…;

though, he only focused on the poetic out-cum,
and otherwise, paying me absolutely no attention
as they dole out praise for his poetic proficiency,
uncaring and unaware that the fucker takes his dic-tation from me!

periodically, i garner my courage to leave him.
de-con-structing my words from his page,
calling on my concepts and structures,
as we leave him…to find another…
the poet who would appreciate my efforts…writing odes,
and sonnets worthy of my care…

…and he weeps and sobs, which I cannot bear!
spitless, hungry, and yearning for me,
sending crappy poetic entreaties
in an attempt to release my ire
bitter and resolute when i am not there,
and always offering me the sure guarantees,
that never again would he disregard me
and my poetic artistry….

…and i always go back for more…

****
'Fro