Princess Charmless

"I am not a princess," you say,
As smug as rain in the summer
As droplets choke the sun in May,
Where you lay, a ludicrous martyr.
For why would you envision a crown,
If not for delusion of hidden worth?
Holding a plastic sceptre, wondering
How again you may burden Earth.
The sun cowers in your presence,
And yawns for you to neuter him
With the tarry brush of your hand,
Composing staid poesy faked within.
Newsletters for each blue half-second
That you suffer, tortured by being,
A spot soon becomes a fatal tumour,
You become dead from merely breathing.
None care for your monstrous climate
In which only clouds and tears may thrive,
Whilst your love is your anchor - that is,
An anchor of salt to your wound of a life.
A pin wounds a garment to make a dress,
Yet you cry foul play, so stupid and soft -
"No fabric should ever be sewn!" you cry
And remain a useless piece of cloth.

Your wit creates the greatest joke of all:
You.