You.

You, sitting there in your comfortable chair,
What do you know of me?
All you know of me is this poem...
You know nothing at all.

You, reading my poem with such an eye
To see the mishaps over which my words stumble,
Why must you judge me?
I just wanted to get my ideas out.

You, with your hand upon your cheek, staring
As I drone on upon this page,
You want to know the reasons why I write.
But you don't care at all...

So, let me be.