More poetry.

If love was a page.
My page would be unwritten.
For I am young and naive.
And often bitten.
By the ones I let in too close.
Who think my heart to be a joke.
And cast me away.
Into a bin full of waste.
Am I waste?
Am I a waste of time?
I don't even care if any of my words rhyme.
I have no structure.
I have no chain.
I have no master.
I am no slave.
I enjoy walking where no other has been before.
I see beauty behind closed doors.
I want to be someone remembered.
Loved and cared for.
But all hope just seems lost now.
Should I care anymore?