Would You Love Me If I Weren't a Poet? - Spelling Edit

I tried to read a favorite poem of mine for you. Your eyes glazed over. You could have been a lizard on a rock sunning yourself, entirely unaware that I felt as though I were there in front of you reciting my words of such beauty that an angel could have been singing them while playing on a harp. You may have even fallen quite to sleep. Not once did you look up or glance at me. You told me later, in fact, you had no use for poetry. Another time I tried to read a poem to you. It was a poem meticulously crafted just for you. I could tell you liked it, for you were its centerpiece. You pricked up your ears a little bit. You thanked me, but no sweet words of great appreciate did you return. I am a stranger in your world of pure practicality. Your love for me is steadfast and real; however, asking if you’d love me if I were not a poet is like asking a mother if she’d love her baby if it were not merely there cooing in her lap.