Write Well.

I could quantum leap over 5,000 sheep,
But still no sleep, dreaming daydreams too meek.
Mead of seeds my parents stupidly spread,
But only made me — girl with a head of lead.
Pencils tread unkept, saying the unsaid.
I was unfed. I was tempted.
I was reckless and relentless and characterized by assumptions.
You can't know me when I don't.
Sure, you could scope and take notes —
but your eyes are so shut -- a crust forms.
Trust no one — scribble woes and call 'em poems.
Low hangs the fruit right next to all of my truths,
ripped off to feed the barely hungry.
It's okay, I didn't need it really...
Bitter is the sweet - Illiterate is the me.
A taste-budless tree,
no longer made to be seen,
sliced paper-thin sheets for others in need.

So, at least write well.