My poems; who have I been writing to?
Are they just words that I have plastered with meaning,
Pinned against the wall with emotion?
Are they written for the lovers I've known,
Or the ones I never will?
Maybe they belong to the demon I dedicate my sins to...
Or is it to the fact that it doesn't exist?
Are they reflections of my soul, or my mind, or just chemical nonsense smeared across canvas?
I would prefer any of these to the truth.
The truth, the unfortunate truth, is that my poems are love letters to this broken, little world that doesn't check it's mail.