There is so much cringe in this book, you’d need a sharp steak knife to cut through this “fresh” bread loaf. So much “begging” poetry to be put first, so much “woe is me” and friend-zoned. The author is incredibly full of himself and obviously thinks he’s owed something from women, and while some of his last poems state “I’m not just a horny old man” - um - ew, yeah, you probably are. 

Run, ladies, run. There is NO inspiration here. It’s just a title.