When Sally broke my heart,
She not only broke my spirit, but also my ability to write a competent poem.
Now I can only write in redundant, cliche lines,
Lines like "Oh, Sally, you are the red rose that grows on a mountaintop.
I would climb that mountain to pick that rose that is you, oh my darling."
Oh, the pain of writing insufficiently while filled with achèd heartache!
Tears covering tears that came before,
The lines of my paper sopping—no, sobbing wet.
Oh, if I could write with my bleeding heart itself, I would,
Dragging it back-and-forth across the lines,
Smearing my heart's blood across the blue-veined lines,
And, having finished my masterpiece, posting it on my LiveJournal,
For all my friends to look upon and weep for me.
Oh god, if I don't get at least six comments lambasting my fate,
I swear I'll take a razor and slit my way into the eternal darkness,
That is my heart-grieven soul.

Oh god, I forgot to rhyme! *sobs*