Not all of these lines
Are going to rhyme
Maybe it's not poetry-
But this time, that's fine.
I have to write this
Even though I'm still not sure how to say it
Why do you talk to me?
Do you honestly even care?
Or is it just somehow better
than listening to dead air?
I hold no great secrets
My philosophies are pieces picked from different puzzles
and even I don't know if they really make a picture
Or if they do, that it's one you'd want to see.
I'm not as interesting
As certain people make me out to be
Talking with you who shine bright like stars in midnight blackness
Just serves to remind me
How great my lack is
And I can't help but wonder
What it is that drives this-
Do you need my shadows
To remind you how bright your light is?
Or are you really trying to cast rainbows
into dusty corners
Bringing color into places that lack this...
I only feel this:
I have nothing to offer you.
So, please.
Leave me be.
Don't try to make me think I might mean something
to you.
Because
In the end, I know...
I won't.