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.