The Worst Conundrum


In may, my lover did reave, a heart so strong
with words so wrong.
In June, he did heave and leave;
And I retrieve and retrieve.
All I did was miss your tepidity,
And serenity.
Words flowing from my hands hurt,
I asked you pult.
Purging your chantey,
With your melodic hey.
And the readers still confused with my painsworth autobiography,
For paintry poetry.