To use an archaic term: Wishing you were my beau.

We are not the same
you and me
as much as I
pretend to be.

I crush myself
into this mold
but this foreign shape
would never hold.

These poems that rhyme
feel so elementary
I suppose that was my
point of entry

And So I despise
every word that I write
making my poetry
soul - less and trite.

I was going to share something
a moment ago
maybe a complex way
of wishing you were my beau.

But as I have learned
words accomplish little
leaving me feeling
diluted and brittle.

As always, I'll leave you
with pieces of me
that may very much resemble
discarded, disturbing, debris.