Spare Me

(A poem on hormones, written in a very strange style)

When I hear someone say

In that odd, airy way—

Or hear them declare

To the wide open air—

That they're Magically, Gloriously, Madly in LOVE

Up roll my eyes

And withheld are my sighs

That would escape from me thus

Having dodged all this fuss

I make my thanks to the heavens above.

For I see in the eyes of those struck by LOVE'S ARROW

More often than not that LOVE'S gone like a sparrow:

Here for a moment, then with a sweep of the wings

Off to perch on much grander things…

Surely when your eyes meet 'tis a wondrous affair

For the rest of the class you are walking on air

Choirs of angels resound through the nation—

But please, spare me such infatuation.

Blind worship is reserved for religion solely

And likewise, a crush is only deemed holy

In the beholder's narrow sight, which will never see wrong—

Only what they've wished to see all along.

I cannot make clear

How the problems are near

When such LOVE will grow

How well do you know

The object of your adoration?

Are you in love—with love, not someone?

Do want that S.O., or just to become one?

Whatever it be

It just isn't for me

So spare me such infatuation.