You are officially someone I write sad, pathetic poetry about

You have become ink blots
Pencil shavings
Illegible lyrics

You should feel honoured
Pat yourself on the back

I'm getting the feeling I could write a book about you
I'd probably burn it afterward
But it's the thought that counts

At least I know you'll never read this
You don't like to read
A warning - red light - from the start

Are you even worth a poem?

On second thought, everyone is worth a poem
That's the good thing about prose

Everyone -large, or small - is entitled to words

Yours just might not be so pretty