It’s a bitch convincing people to like you

More bad poetry from the wellspring of my inner fourteen-year-old’s angst ridden misery.

The love I bear thee, beneficial friend,
exceeding quite the level granted me
would seem to hearken our good friendship’s end
as flame burn’d with too much intensity.

You turn your eye from my poor, seeking gaze.
You hear not embassies of pleading want.
You leave me quite, and take your leave for days;
My strong advances fade from hale to gaunt.

Initially, you had return’d my love
with equal fervour, ardour, insistance,
’til more than your desire, mine soared above
and your desire increasèd our distance.

The steward of my body once before
shall be desire’s outlet nevermore.

A weekend love is all it was

Oh noetry – bad poetry!

My love does press the roses to my cheek
with spirits, or by spirits spoken true;
A sleeping world in gilt of morning dew.
A nighttime ritual, by night to speak.

To you I do by catchèd breath impart
the trials and the vict’ries of my lot;
The age that parts us sunder, heed ye not:
You know still all the content of my heart.

And yet you know, and I, we will be twain
inevitably in the course of time;
So to you now I dedicate my rhyme
in order that my memory remain.

So when our courtship be yet at an end,
Look on these words, and know me still a friend.