On Days When I'm Praised

On days when I am praised for my writing

on internet by random strangers,

I wince as if hit on the head

by a sharp ended scale

because I know what is going to come next:

you are cute,

you are beautiful,

you are beauty with brains,

you are this, you are that

I could supply you with sappier, cheesier lines

But I am not in the mood.

I am never in that mood.

I don’t want to be seen,

I don’t want to be heard even.

All I want is to be read,

Over and over and over again.

I want to be hidden under pillows,

that are too wet, and taste like salt.

I want to be marked,

With red, black, green;

Whichever colour marker you please.

I want to be put on dorm room walls,

With people smiling and sighing as they go by.