The rules of poetry are secondary to the rules of love, of which there are none. While poetry critics may bleat and squawk about meter or syllable count, the essence of poetry, at its core, is passion. It always will be.
These poems were penned by a very real young man in love – tortured by the very real confusions and pains of young love. They were never intended to see the light of day, but were composed as a sort of private diary. In them, you will find broken meter, absent rhymes, and utter disregard for the formal structure and rules of what is commonly called poetry. Drawing from the classic poets, such as Sylvia Plath, as much as from the inner musings and torments that possess a man to be both sappy and morbid, these poems range wildly from overly sentimental love sonnets to dark and macabre ventures into the deep recesses of a broken heart.