Putrid Poetry

I speak English, not poetry.
I speak plainly, not with imagery.
I abhor how you communicate
And the nuances that you state.
Your words paint pictures; and I disagree
With how you portray my world and me.
So since the two of us cannot see
Eye to eye, it's best that we
Go our separate ways; although
Deep in my heart, I know
That what you write is true.
But I can't accept it coming from you.
Your pen has pierced my mind: exposing every thought.
Your words are written in my blood: drawn from my very heart.
There on every sheet, I see on every line
The world that I had hidden exposed for all to find.
I cannot grasp the words to state.
How deep and strong is my hate.
"I am not fond of you," is what I choose to say
To damn the tide of my emotions that I hold at bay.
So you see the iceberg's tip and cannot even fathom the mass of my abhorrance still hidden in the sea
Of my mind and heart; there, tormenting me.
There I percolate every hateful thought.
Oh, the destruction you have brought
To me
By your putrid poetry!