Has anyone ever realized that the easiest poems to write are about depression and love?

Well, somebody needs to fire Apollo because this has got me depressed about love. Like: "Excuse me Mr Sun-God-of-Poetry, but may I speak to your manager?" And while he's at it, Zeus may as well fire Cupid, too, because he isn't doing his job right.

This motherfucker went on some kind of drive-by and clipped me. Like...I'm half in love with you? Standing right on the border, falling in and out and in again...like an Alicia Keys song. Like...one day, I'll wake up and swear that the last six hours in Hypnos's grasp were pure bliss, dreaming in your grace; but by the time night hits, I've already forgotten the song my heartbeat has composed specially for you. But by the time I wake up again, it's like Aphrodite herself tattooed your name on the inside of my skull, because I just cannot get you out of my head.

Inked from the blood of a crucified universe, like...this really is "star-crossed love". But in reality, I just shot for the sky and clipped it.

Speaking about stars, the Sun better up his game because you smile like you're trying to put him out of business.

It'll go something like this, like...you ask me if I think this or that is good. And I'll lie. I'll say yes. Just so maybe I can see that Godsmile. And you'll know that I'm lying because you know me better than that. But you'll smile anyway - a supernova of brilliance and emotion framed by the blue-green shards of sky they call your eyes. It's gotten to a point where I cannot even consider my day as started yet until I can catch a glimpse of that sunrise, and no day is truly finished until the quiet sonority they call your voice lullabies my soul away from anything that can possibly be wrong with the world,

because what can possibly be wrong with the world,

the same world

that you exist in.

Yeah, it's really like that. Fuck you, Cupid, do a better job next time.

Because sometimes I see how much brighter your sunrise is when it's aimed at the other guy, how much bluer and greener the sky is, how much more there is to music...and I think about how that must make you feel. To be so radiant for someone else - oh, how his name must be tattooed all over the inside of your ribcage. Every "babump, babump" only convinces me more that I don't really love, the stars just made a mistake and this arrow is but a flesh wound. Not to the knee, I'm still an adventurer like you, I just think my map's a little hungover.

Drunk off your essence...and my map and I drunk texted the poser Sun last night and told him to quit his day job!

I've been here for a while and it's dark, just a little bit lonely, and I think my poetry - my poet tree - is wilting.

But if I should die today, still half in love with you, I'm leaving Cupid and Apollo behind. I'm converting to a religion about reincarnation to keep faith that I may see the real sun again. My poet tree may have a chance to bear fruit.

Because I swear being half in love like this is more overwhelming than trying to give my all to anything else. So this is an unrequiem for my unrequited half love for you.