Buttered Rum

I used to think I was a poet 'Til I started writing whack lines, that made me grow up Hemingway every other day never edit My words aren't too cryptic, you just don't get it Metaphors, similes for death I'm bereft of ideas I haven't had yet The best, still to come, inspired, by some rum A few, drunk kisses and two, locked tongues, home run I'm rounding all the bases but I cheated on the way so this title is vacated, I need A vacation, a place to lay low I don't like the cold but I don't mind the snow, mistletoe You could've kissed me but you froze Yeah I know, you got trust issues with so and so but I'm Gold, a man of constellations You could've had the stars but I guess you lacked the patience