In a world full of artists and  writers,
It’s hard not to compare
“Are the poems I write good?
What makes them different from anyone else’s out there?”

My poems don’t rhyme
At least, not all the time
And my words may not be exquisite
Hell, they’re hardly even elegant

No, my poems may not be the best
But, they do come from the heart
So who’s to say
that isn’t art?

You pretend not to know me
In front of him
Like you didn’t come over at 2am
And we didn’t spend hours talking and cuddling
And you didn’t plant a row of kisses on my shoulder
Or scratched my back until I fell asleep

Is that all I am to you?
A secret you’ll carry with you to your grave?

How can you sleep?
Only to dream
How can you sing?
Words you don’t mean
How can you try?
Without aiming to win
And how can you love?
Without giving it

I need to learn, I need to see
How can you even turn,
something real to a dream?
How can you do it?
How come I’m still wondering?
In the middle of an ocean
of tears, I swam
of blood, I sailed
all day, all night
for you

How can we believe,
on love we don’t receive?
How can we give back,
something that’s not given to us?
How can we depend,
on words they will send?
How can we wait,
though we know it’s too late?

Things I’m surprised I can do
Never for anyone, just for you
I’d stretch limits, I’d swim through
For I trust, someday you’ll hear me too

so beautiful dependence,
pardon me, I won’t embrace
sweet life world promised, full of grace
for I know, for certain, what’s real
so I won’t leave