I watched you as
you tore apart
my countless journals of poems
You continuously told me that
writing poetry was a waste
of what I could be
doing.

You read each poem
before you tore them
and I wish I had seen
compassion grow in your eyes
but only hatred did.

Countless poems about you
about her
about him
about myself
about father
about the world
and all I heard was
"These are all pitiful."

It was well noted that I wouldn't
show you another of my poems
just incase you hated those too
and then I would be here
watching as the compassion drains from
your warm brown eyes and hatred
grows in them