I was looking through files and found this poem I wrote less than a year ago. I hope you like it. 
Singing alone in the back room yonder
a melody sweet that I hold fonder
than other cheerful tunes I’d heard:
a mindless laugh, songs of a bird,
wondering why no one can hear
that melody I find so dear,
I wander to the living room
to weave new songs upon my loom.
Now I whisk to their location,
seeing if they might find relation
to my tune, so grim and true,
recognize it as I do.
Whilst I play those winning aces
only horror strikes their faces.
Do they not see music’s duty
to instate the likes of beauty?
Tears of sorrow since are falling,
and those folks won’t cease their bawling
for the music, for the dying song,
for the tune that did not last as long.
Now I smile, now I smile
at their crying, at their guile.
First they pretended not to care
about the music in the air.
Maybe now they understand
how the music’s always planned
to bring tears, to free emotion
when they pay it their devotion,
so I peer down to their eyes.
My former thought was yet unwise.
Then I realize they’ve been witty;
it was pity, it was pity
for that singer, for that sad soul,
for how she’s incomplete, not whole.
I am that pitiful, sorry singer
who may on this Earth no longer linger
without a purpose to fulfill;
it is my want, it is my will.
Please place on me no more wretched pity
while I sing these songs I find so pretty.
Leaving this horrid house behind
I stroll with melodies in mind
until that peaceful day when I may see
another girl who thinks of tunes like me.
Singing alone in the back room yonder
a melody sweet that I hold fonder
than other cheerful tunes I’d heard:
a mindless laugh, songs of a bird,
wondering why no one can hear
that melody I find so dear,
I wander to the living room
to weave new songs upon my loom.
Now I whisk to their location,
seeing if they might find relation
to my tune, so grim and true,
recognize it as I do.
Whilst I play those winning aces
only horror strikes their faces.
Do they not see music’s duty
to instate the likes of beauty?
Tears of sorrow since are falling,
and those folks won’t cease their bawling
for the music, for the dying song,
for the tune that did not last as long.
Now I smile, now I smile
at their crying, at their guile.
First they pretended not to care
about the music in the air.
Maybe now they understand
how the music’s always planned
to bring tears, to free emotion
when they pay it their devotion,
so I peer down to their eyes.
My former thought was yet unwise.
Then I realize they’ve been witty;
it was pity, it was pity
for that singer, for that sad soul,
for how she’s incomplete, not whole.
I am that pitiful, sorry singer
who may on this Earth no longer linger
without a purpose to fulfill;
it is my want, it is my will.
Please place on me no more wretched pity
while I sing these songs I find so pretty.
Leaving this horrid house behind
I stroll with melodies in mind
until that peaceful day when I may see
another girl who thinks of tunes like me.
