I Doubt You'll Write This Poem For Me

I doubt you'll write this poem for me Since I so rarely get The things I set my heart upon, The things I might regret. So little do I now expect, So little hope or fear, I draw a circle round myself And find my pleasure there. I do not like my friends, nor do I Think that they like me. Their words are hard, like jagged rocks, Their treacherous eyes like scree. Alone I read, I dream, I like My music loud, I wait For something that will never come, I fault my faultless fate. I throw myself upon your will, Yet know you will not say The words that show me to myself And burn my heart away.