Being a poet

I thought
all my romanticism is waste
cause the person
who should reciprocate
though very shiny
is rigid as diamond
tough to penetrate
I wrote hundreds of poems
ballads, serenades
thousands of metaphors
tonnes of sonnets
everything in vain
But wait…
may be he was just the
simile in the poems
‘my Romeo my Lancelot’
I used to say
I still have so much to alliterate
‘the perturbed pen of a poignant poet’

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