Write me a poem that makes my cheeks burn
So that my only concern is how the world knows
all the ways you can tell me you hate me

Read me the lines of venom you spit when you speak
Because who cares about the tears that stain my skin?
My cheeks are a masterpiece of old emotion

But who cares?
When the words you write make people feel alive
They don't have time to ponder over my sarrow

I want to try and understand how you think
Why my voice grates your ears
Why my face conjures red infront of your eyes
Until you **** me with each cruel word
Your sharp edged pen now rested
My blood dripping from the tip

Write me a poem that makes me cry
All your cruelty wrapped into a small package
Written on old napkins or preformed on stage
Either way the audience claps
Or a waitress cleaning her tables at night will cry in awe

And my cheeks will burn red