Time to tell the truth.
As I do so, I won't use
the poets' tricks and tools.
Simple words will do.

My poems are a cry for attention.
A cry that hopes that
one day someone will see them.
        "You are writing poetry? Wow!
         You are truly an insightful,
         sensitive, open-minded and
         artistic person. You have a gift."
        -The words I want to hear.
         Yes, deep within me.
               Time to tell the truth.

A hope that someone will:
•see me gazing into a nature
•watch me while I'm gently smoking a cigarette
•look AT my deep eyes
•see me reading a book(a sign of intelligence,
                                                             obviously.)
•see me with my eyes closed, meditating
                              (a sign of self-awareness
                                               and sensitvity.)
A hope that someone will say
I'm intelligent and
A p p r e c i a t e   me.
Constant shaping. What is real? Is there "real"?
Nowadays, I strongly doubt that.

All these things
I've seen through
& through.
I've investigated their roots,
deep within the silent earth,
I've looked at every fossil,
and analysed the course of evolution
Yet they rule(d) me.

I'm leaving it all
beyond the glittering doors
of the Acid Poem,
with a corpse of ego.
I'm abandoning my-self
and all my theatre roles.