When I commit my thoughts to ink
And pen my silly little verses,
I rarely even pause to think--
I just repeat your endless curses:

I curse myself for misspelled words
(And for that stone you call a heart).
The meter's off! Oh, how absurd
To seal this misery in art.

Like a moth flies to a flame,
I don't control the things I do--
My pen finds paper, just the same;
Two agonies I must pursue.

You see, you're always cruel to me,
But you are great for poetry.