A poem for me,
a gift for you,
I write poems,
for everybody in this room.

They praise and tell,
then push me back into hell,
and I write poems,
on the walls of the cave.

For they tell me they love me,
that I'm a good friend,
then they hate me,
I'm aggressive, bad, sensitive;
When can I end?

And I write poems,
on the caves walls.

No poem for me,
a poem for you,
I scribble poems,

Why do they all end, as gifts to you?

-Z.R.w