Ah, the wonders of a heartbreak. I believe that it is not love than makes men into great poets. It is the end of love that drives us to our literary gusts. Case in point, Edgar Allan Poe and Pablo Neruda. It’s a common fact that men write kilometric love letters when their heart beats for a woman. But when the heart breaks, it creates seminal novels, paintings or good music. Depression, too, can be productive.
I thought about this poem when I thought I gave up on it.
SEEK ME NOT
Hide lovely angel, take exit way
Be incarcerated in my frown of lip
And pray to Eros that he may
Seek me not and go in unkind grip
Hide its rainbow in the ray of light
Be cupped like asbestos white
Only then aerate it in my slumber
That I will embrace when no longer sober.
Hide, dead hopes, in the happy song
In dark yellow dogears, laid among
Once paged in pretty climaxed stories
That with every end, joy flees
Hide, as eternally, hide your soul
And by no means reveal it to me
For when I do, I’ll be its silly fool
I’d stay there and be its enslaved wee
So be veiled in six feet of earth
Be gone and dare not give birth
To pain, to grim, to mess and sore
Love, hide! Meet me no more.
The Lamentations 