It seems I can only write about love.
Which is weird because I am completely alone.
There is no one in the world who I want to hug
And not a single person, place, or thing I can call home.

Maybe it's that I am writing for someone else?
A stranger who needs to read loving words.
I think I write for everyone but myself.
I can’t pretend that being this lonely doesn’t hurt.

I think this is irony, but I am not sure.
My life feels pitiful and stupid.
There is not much more I can endure.
Perhaps love is just not something for which I am suited.

Alas, I will continue to write.
Because it is the only thing I can do.
My silly little poems give me life.
Even though reading my beautiful words make me blue.