Every line it ain’t enough.
The best poem in the world,
It’s just futile, useless.
You can’t feel what I feel.
You cannot truly relate.
Even if you could, so what?
What does that accomplish?
You praise me but you do not know me.
It’s worthless, just words.
And what is in a word but nothing.
Just meanings changing, from person to person,
Just sound.
Ain’t no real point to it all if you think about it?
So then why do I continue?
Because to me it feels better than not.
It’s already depressing just thinking,
But at least this way when you tell me I can pretend.
Maybe one day it’ll be better.