“Yes, they deserved to die, and I hope they burn in HELL!!!” – Samuel L. Jackson, A Time to Kill
Because there are plenty of ways to get over him-- and yourself-- other than writing huge blocks of free association with words that rhyme on the end of every line, possessed of no unique style whatsoever.
Know what made Shakespeare’s poems so timeless? They were mostly sonnets-- sonnets! Fourteen lines… ten syllables a line… in iambic pentameter with the last two lines ending in a rhyming couplet (huh?). You’ve really got to be in love with another human being to write some shit like that.
I don’t know how they happened but I can count at least twenty-two separate incidents in my lifetime where I was forced to comment on some chick’s hackneyed poem describing her romantic situation:
You took my undying love for granted
Now I’m sick and sad… sorta slanted
I ate a pint of cookies and cream
Reminiscing on how we used to seem
Before you wanted something more
With that whore who works at Pizza Hut
What the fuck?!
Writing poetry for your man on a regular basis is also a fool’s errand. A blowjob, even on auto-pilot, would be more appreciated than a hundred of your half-assed haikus. If the relationship goes down in flames you can always deny that blowjob, but a stack of printed e-mails in the hands of man who no longer values your feelings or privacy can be dynamite.
So keep the poetry in your journal and please don't share it. The life you save may be… never mind, just don’t share it.