This billet-doux is not for thou.

Should i say love is,
jollity and joyous?
all fake.

Dont judge me by jotter or letter,
all i wrote,
all you read,
Isn't true,
but it's full of melticolouness.

Thus my love to you,
Isn't real,
and isn't kitsch,
but it's a depression interminable,
that can't be stop,
and it must be stop.

And what i,
comprehend the meaning of warm-liking?
It's bête noire, blase and full of..
boredom.

But what i see,
you are different from other dame,
they all coquette and hypocrite.

If you sojourn on my heart,
snuggle me,
and i will spoke to you,
someone has stole my heart,
and you are the lucky one,
because,
the dame that i love is not thou.

All dame-lame are same.