The lonely poet

Why do I see beauty everywhere

Even in faces scarred by despair

Why can I not please them

They will just think that I am dumb

My pen sets their heart on fire

Why are they not filled with desire

They look at me with pity in their pretty eyes

Why am I the devil in disguise

I am just a lousy writer

Who writes poems on a typewriter

To the ladies I never knew

Those who I never could woo

Bound by tears that I bled

I lie still almost dead

Dreaming of the ones I never got

Scribbling nonsense on a yellow jot

Why will not my desire disappear

There is naught to fear

No one left to love or to hate

This poem is already too late