Love poems, love poems, to myself!
I'm the finest liquor, we're all bottom shelf,
I have an idea, it turns into three
cold calls on quiet dreaming,
diaphanous to meet you
leads to monkey see over do;
this is a whisper, my nature:

bloody ink, give me struggle
give me truth!

And, if that's who you're meant to play at this 
season's matinee, I suspect you'll need preparation
which will look like hesitation FRET NOT
it'll feel so fucking good to bore down past ocean basin,
my god you've made it you've made it you've made it you've made it you've made it you've made it does not mean what you thought it would be//
embers ash flame, trench love pain, 
Bloody Ink! If this is a love poem,
it is rather strange.