A poet’s guide to Valentine’s Day, as told through predominantly depressing songs and observations that make you wonder whether or not someone should give the author a call to check he is okay (plot twist, he is fine, this is just who he is fundamentally as a person).
So, a lot of people will tell you that poets are great lovers, that they are so in touch with their emotions that at a base level, they have about plus ten points in love making. Now, this might be true but all of that extra emotionality pours out of them like a broken faucet connected to a sewage outlet (not the most poetic image but the grotesque is just as important as the beautiful). So, when you see a poet talking about love, just remember that should they be in love, it will be a conquerable mountain that only they can see the top of, it will be the cessation of war, it will be the volition of hope coursing through them, electrifying all aspects of their person, their persona, and their drive to simply be better because love is aiding them to do so. When they are not in love on the other hand, it will be a list of songs designed to make you hate yourself a little bit, like your voice is the sound of desperation and everyone you meet is so far past wanting to hear you talk anymore.
It will be this list.