Old poem: My least favorite

I take into account my favorite assets,

in case I end up in numerous caskets.

I try to be grateful for my ribs, and my nose

my height and my face and the polish I chose.

I try to think heavenly, but I'm tired of tests

It's like he's poking fun at all of my bests.

and by bests I mean efforts, I only have so many

he acts though I'm worthless, a gutter found penny.

If I had a voice,

If I had a say,

NO ONE would ever make me feel this way.

But feeling so much,

and having nothing to touch,

isn't that why we all hurt so much?

The rhyming is pure OCD,

but the anger and sadness is as real as can be.

You won't ever know the real me that walks,

because the fake me is the one who talks the talk.

I hope I can leave some faith,

that good is good, and fake is just fake.

I don't pretend to know what I'm here for,

or to wish to do anything more...

Than ask you to speak,

to any who will listen.

To make strangers hope,

to make children glisten.

We are a world full of lonely people,

be someones door, their pew, their steeple.