What will I do if I keep writing you love poems?
I show no sign of stopping
And your eyes aren't any getting uglier.
Soon the will be too many to put in a notebook
And if I mailed them to you
The shipping would bankrupt me
And then I couldn't afford a new notebook
Then I'd have to write you sonnets on garbage:
An ode to your un-ugly eyes
Penned on a forgotten pizza box
And then I'd be even more like a serial killer
Isn't it funny how if I write you a post card I'm romantic
But if I send you one etched into a rat
I'm a psychopath
Its not fair
An artist uses the materials at their disposal
Speaking of which
I suppose I should stop wasting paper
Choose my words more carefully...
Your eyes aren't getting any uglier...
And, if I am in fact a psychopath,
I should really think before writing things down at all.