Modern Love

The jack hammer on the street, cannot compete, with the thudding of my heart, Oh lest you think, it beats for something sweet, you’ve got it wrong—its torn apart, And the constant fret that decorates the edge of the skinned ripe cherry pulpy thing called my heart laced with sadness, forget to recall the ledge wished it was the liver instead assigned to sting And I don’t want to read another poem from those in the know, about love And every other poetic thing bring to light why you left me or let me go or let me go in order to hold on, or why one shouldn’t hold on too tight or how the color white brings to mind milk, touting the words milk, or undulating in every single modern poem, and how the word single, reminds me reminds me me, that its just me.