If I tell you that in truth,
you were just another
art project I executed
in my life, that everyday
a scripted act is put up
by a one-man thespian
finding his way to write
a poetry he can call poetry,
would you be mad?

If I tell you that all of them –
the days you deemed moving,
every word and every tear –
all of them designed
to make you feel
as if everything was real,
would you forgive me?

I cannot even forgive myself
for letting this experiment get in the way.
Everything was real
act, until I gave in.
I am such a bad thespian.

I am such a bad thespian
I cannot harness these words
to make you believe. You see,
everything was real
though I wish it was not.