These poems I write, they’re my escape,
though from what I do not know.
My troubles seem to evaporate
the moment I let them show.
I write about love, which is ironic
because I’ve never had a lover.
I used to think maybe I was sick;
for I’ve never longed for one either.
I write about death when I’m feeling down
so I can cry to something new,
but thinking to when I lost real tears,
maybe they weren’t mine to lose.
Even now as I write this down
- my headphones on but paused -
I wonder where my motives are bound,
for I always feel like a fraud.