Don't write poems about me

I really think I could ever trust a man who would write poems about me. As if writing poems carries with its grandness an element of imminent disloyalty that is only disclosed to the one who writes himself. Is it that inspiration is unfaithful or that it is self loving? Or is it simply me who cannot stand the clarity and immediacy of my own reflection in the words of others, a tremble of they coming at me like a crystal jar over a kitchen fly.

In these words alone, one can see how love is born on the contrapositives.
I hate for what is.
I love for what is not.

There's also something else that would bother me though. His writing about me can't be but the result of an indeliberate attempt to find, an outcome of an inveterate search in the everything that exists and disappears in the presences of people in all the noises and unclarities, the surrealisms of any given togetherness. In search emerges the poet's condition, the decomposition of constructible realities, a licence to aberrate that defines what is created from the leftovers of what is.

This precise restlessness about the state of affairs is what would drive me mad. For I can't believe my soul was fabricated to withstand being the object of that much searching.