O poem, my poem,
Why are you so hard to deal?
I spend night and day presenting
to you my thoughts. How have you
no mercy? Strong strokes paint
my soul on the page, yet you
shun them, abandon them in
the harsh winter’s wind.
Can you not show an ounce
of empathy towards me–the
one who must desperately write
you. Sullenly, I wait. Wait for you
to open your heart and
allow me to express my nothings.
Time will pass–I know–before
you realize your mistake–I will
be famous, rich, and successful,
and you will regret me never writing
you. Yes, when that day comes,
I will sneer at you. Laugh in your
face, for you will never know
what I could offer–never will–
I will make sure of that.
You will spend night and day
trying to get me to write you,
but I will be too hard to deal.
O poem, o poem.