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on why i will never date a poet

you are arrogant
fond of grand gestures, in love with words
if not more than yourself
you deem the world as a concept
to explore, disassemble
only to arrange according to your own

you detect the awkwardness
in my first stanza’s last line, and would like
to edit my punctuations when I couldn’t care less
on commas and periods you are restless
you are my kind
and I know too well that we live to find
what will never be found

you compare me to a dagger
without knowing what wounds me
you are impossible, you will die
attempting to hear the meter
of an unsound line, disparage

my lapses in syntax. you make love
with abstractions, and like in poetry,
you bend truths
to satisfy discontent, you are unendingly
searching for a misplaced

you are a persona.