Everyone we know is mortal, my dear:
Sometimes, we can't see what other see
Because we are people affected by grief
And blinded by love or other such fiends

Our friends may seem deaf to our pleas
They claim to understand every need
But dearest, they cannot and do not know
What is desired by the heart and soul

Thus, measure by care if you please
For within each heart is a page for you
Or perhaps more in gentle bloom
And pain at your angry tone...

Meh... I try and I should know better--now I do