I'm in your head with what I've read.
Sorry? You say I'm not?
If we don't want the attention,
then why write this rot?
The poet is a complex breed;
they "spill it" for the page
but deny the closest knowing,
hiding source of love or rage.
Poetry, a selfish sport
we tease the world with rhymes
then troll the lines of someone else
as if we're owed the cries.
Not for public viewing
except what we control;
we measure just the prettiest
and the rest we hold.
Who really knows a writer
except themselves?
Our deepest, truest secrets
we hold upon our shelves.
By this the world's a poem
we wind together deep;
we ought to open up our hearts
let all the feeling seep.
Just rambling.