This is a love poem, I feel
The words I spill are not unreal,
Though it took near an hour just
To mold only this poem’s crust.
I am bored of my words, now,
That linger at the edge of how
I’d like to say this poem goes,
But will not form, so little shows
Of what I mean to say to you—
Perhaps you’ll take this as a clue
That my short love poem is real,
Though it has sadly failed, I feel.