When A Poet Love-Scorned Poem by Cris Ben

Many a folk have suffered from heartbreaks and heartaches
Some cope with the pain with pride and chivalry
While some like babies' bitter crying
Over a wet sullied floor of spilt soup bowl.

As a poet which I'd love to think I be
I'm not exempted to love's sentimental agony
I love and get hurt, learn and love then hurt agin
'Tis like a vile euphoric curse of affection-rejection.

A decade-long of resemblant plights
of loving and not being loved or haply being left
I have learnt and sculpted the art of forgetting
And going forth to my odd emotional healing.

Aa a poet I raze one's very existence, heart and mind,
By condemning and hating everything he is
I write him livid metaphors, similes and hyperboles
Just to make forgetting, though hard, swift and easy

An angel, I can sever its wings and feathers
And make a decent pillow for pigs and cattle.
A genius r a saint, I can paint him into a clown
Coated with eggs and tomatoes and atrocious blasphemies

Once sweet words and face can rot and be acrid
And from there fumes and rises hell's fury
Demon head, phoenix wings, serpent tails,
Dragon talons, reverberating caterwauls 'n' wails

Let my heart brew the mightiest storms
Let my heart havoc the greatest war against reasons
For soon the breeze and streams sound a gentle heartbeat
And that silence and peace in blood and rotten meat

But You! I could try to forget but I could never do
This aching poet cannot think ill of you
So I will just live on, hungry for tomorrows
And rejoice until there's just memory of you and the sorrows.