Your poetry sucks.

Poetic verse does not sleep contently within your bones.

You are not made of Shakespearean sonnets.

Metaphors do not cling to your teeth like snowdrops,

and similes do not lurk like assassins behind those false psychic eyes.

Your veins bleed nothing but red.

And your whispers,
they will never leave galaxies
along the length of spines.

So, Dear Heart,
you can take your stars,
your full moon romances,
the many, desperate love letters,
the gag worthy cliches-

and eat them.