I’ve got no time for love poems for

My verses seldom sate

Any wont for cheerfulness

Or anything but hate.

It’s healthy not to pent your pain,

Instead, to scribe it down.

A necessary act for one,

Who feels; or else I’d drown.

I hate the man who loved you back

When I was seventeen.

An eager sort of lad, I was,

Obsessed with being seen

And I hate even more just how you

Trampled on my soul.

Maybe I was angry, but I 

Lost complete control

So, hate’s a feeling I know well,

I’ve scribed about it some.

And I can’t help but hate you still

For all the harm you’ve done.