Some one told me I am a "Love Poet".
That what I write about greatly is that emotion.
I remember looking at him and saying,
"I write about the magic of sad little tragedies".
I don't write, I strip away the world and leave the words.

Something vexing about these people who "Know" me.
They look at me as if I were a wounded beast.
Pained by heartache and full of anger.
Truthfully, all I am is waiting.

Phrases come to mind when I think out loud.
My mother fears that all I do is talk to myself.
She doesn't believe when I say, "I am making a poem".

I guess I replaced my frilly phrases for honesty,
This... is this still poetry?

Maybe I've fallen too far in my own mind.