I wrote you a book
You threw it under your bed
You skipped over the pictures
And skimmed what it said
You don’t read
But you’re not illiterate
If I sang you a song
With harmonious lyrics  
All of the little bits
Would bang your ear drum
And an apt, vain outcome
You’re the moon
You’re not the brightest
And you haven’t even the slightest
Idea of what
I’m trying to tell you, but
When you stop pretending
That this unending
Never-ending cycle
Of trying to make you feel
What I want you to feel
Has been really imaginary
Then I’ll be the most
Successful writer
But once again
I wish you would read my book