do my messy words leaving through the ink mean anything to you?

do those hanging commas I use,
add any mystery to you?

you say those words are good,
but why do they seem so fake and unrealistic?

do those words make you feel
surreal and not real?

those words are pure fiction;
you say, but really are they?

I say I'm lost, you say I'm fake.
what road am I then supposed to take?

some say it's okay to be lost,
some say it's not.
some say being lost in the world is wrong,
some say being lost in your world is right.

who am I supposed to listen,
when these letters are haunting me?

these words are my diary
screaming out loud,
what I feel,
what I do.

you say it's fiction,
I say it's not.
fantasies can't exist,
but miracles can.
my words are not just fantasies,
my experiences are not just experiences.
they're a story for masses
to tell;
miracles do exist.

I believe they do.
but you let me push you away,
with every time you show,
my words are just words
telling me they don't mean anything.
I refuse to believe so.
words aren't just words,
but emotions.
they don't get scribbled to be just words,
they're stories.

could it be a miracle,
when you actually believe,
these messy words
with hanging commas,
really do mean?