Poetry flowers like pests
doesn’t do a thing, just eats
off my heart.

The memories of how I loved
Whom I loved, when I, where I loved

How I couldn’t express
the best of my emotions
in the best of my longings

How I couldn’t utter
the best of my love
in the best of my heart

How I couldn’t feel
the best of her
in the best of my lust

How I couldn’t write
the best of my poetry
in the best of my pangs