you came to me,
and told a poem
you've wrote for me

i didn't like it
for it lacked
some kind of wit
that i was finding

another fellow came to me
and wrote the same kind of
poetry

i loved it, not because
it's lovely
but because his looks
were charming

i brushed you off
not knowing why
for maybe i was being
sly

i got too busy looking
at facades to later
then be filled with awes
when i should be looking
at the innermost that i
could live to be engrossed

to see you now
writing poems, which are good
to read utmost
but those words that are written
aren't for me no more