Like the air has been sucked out of a blowup doll, or the covers yanked off my naked body, I feel deflated and exposed for the crummy poet I actually am.

Forcing rhymes out of a natural free verse just to please...both me and somebody else who will read this as a tease of real poetry with all its similes. I do not know why I write. I used to think I knew, but now it all has gone eschew, temporarily.
Draped over reality, I escape civility not knowing who's a utility to lean on.

Cover me with mud, tell me I'm your bud, anything, to help me face the banality of my reality--once again, here I am at the start, not close enough to your heart. I wish to get closer, move over sweet love, and taste my virtue. I'll bet you never tasted anything like it. I love when you answer my call. Even if I have nothing to say, you still pay me attention and tell me, "I'll help see you through this."

What have I done to deserve you? You're so great, and I know, the sum of who I am unnerves you. I try so hard to please you, yet I am myself with you, every single time we're together you tell me I am doing great. How can you relate? Put your feet on a rollerblade and skate. It will prepare you for surfing and swimming with seaturtles...this is your fate!