Every poet writes of
the moon as if they know her,
drinks coffee like water,
and overuses words that
they have never even said aloud

Because no one truly cares
what the writer felt,
if the interpretation
did not feel relative to the reader himself

       An indent here,
a story about bruised knees,
a summer that should have never ended,
and love that should have
                  before it even began
A copy of a copy,
of a copy, of a copy

and no one seems to notice,
unless while reading,
they felt nothing similar

I could tell you I have flowers
sprouting from my rib-cage,
and a rabbit thumping away in my chest,

but if that means nothing to you
I become just another
******, wannabe internet writer
who failed to make
your heart-strings
resound

- S.G.