Poems Phloems

At first I act as if I care
And say that I hope they fare
And then I start to tear
Away my facàde, no longer I wear
And with a cackle, I glare

I brace them with my blinding smile
And ask them "Why? Haven't had a joke in a while?"
No rage left in them to rile
So they wither away and die

An excerpt from my collection.