Don’t love me, for I am famous not,
Have no gifts or recognition.
The charm and chat I haven’t got,
Of a star or politician.

Don’t love me, for I’ve not written books,
To rove about and sign.
Aren’t blessed with style or stunning looks,
Draw no crowd as I opine.

Don’t love me, for I have modest means,
No highflyer in my profession.
Not a life of gainful changing scenes,
Inheritance or succession.

Don’t love me, for I'm not extrovert,
Enjoying quiet and solitude.
As for fashion, I’m anything but alert,
And with charisma don’t exude.

For, if you want such worldly gifts,
I'll never likely be their source.
As life for balance, people sifts,
Alloting each a unique course.

Love me, for something else instead,
Which perhaps just love might see.
That person within my heart and head,
The one sui generis me.