My pen begins to weep

Love, tell me how you hate me.

Tell me how I'm a disappointment.

Tell me how I am strange.

Other artists reach out to me

And tell me my work is fascinating.

Love, tell me how much you are concerned.

And tell me what my humble work is worth.

I'm too peculiar.

But, to others I'm talented.

And to you I am nothing.

Thank you because if it wasn't for you

I wouldn't know how to fight back.

I wouldn't know what to do with all these feelings. 

And my pen begins to weep...

Love, tell me how you hate me..

I'd like to know how much I mean to you.

I'd like to know how long you can treat me this way...

It must make you feel better in your igloo in the snow.  So, you can start your day.

As long as you have an enemy, you can function- it doesn't matter how many hearts you'll break.

My heart is broken, but mending..

My pen begins to weep on the page.

Love, tell me how you hate me..

Love, tell me this is interesting...

Some people are so consumed by their own negativity. They can never be happy for anyone. They only see their misfortune.

They can't see a gleam of light or intelligence. A sprit of fun or relevance.

They don't know any other tune.

My pen begins to weep and my heart will continue.