I want to tell you something,
But before I start I want to make one thing very clear;
This isn't a confession.

There was a time when I started helping others
Because I had learned how to help myself first.
There was a time when I stole the sun
Not knowing that something so beautiful could burn me.
There was a time when I pretended I was sick with poetry.
I heaved and convulsed ink out onto countless pages,
And to this day I blame other people for my pain.

But in truth…
I never learned how to help myself.
And it wasn't the sun I stole,
But with the way her eyes shined
It was easy to get the two confused,
And my God did she burn me.
I’m not really sick with poetry either.
These poems are just my muse,
And even if I know it’s not true,
I still blame others for all of my pain.

There are times when I help others
even though I can’t help myself.
There are times when the sun is the last thing I want to see,
Even on my darkest days.
There are times that I get so sick with the idea of poetry.
It’s hard to write something and not fall victim to it.
And there are times that I blame others for my pain,
Even if I’m the one who chose to get hurt by them.

And I want to make one thing very clear,
That even if all of my suffering is my fault,
Even if I’m the one who did this to myself,
I’m the one who picked up the pen.
But this isn't a confession.