I like to write as if I'm sensitive and caring,
and yet I'm filled with conceited thoughts such as of what I'm wearing.
I look into the stars and pretend that there's more,
then I can only think of who'll be my next *****.
I'm supposed to let the words of love and care flow out,
but it appears my heart has taken a different route.
I want to believe that I can think beyond such simple joys,
only to realize my head is filled with devious ploys.

To ****, to feel, to ******, to flail,
my mind is filled with such trivial hail.
If only I could change and be more sophisticated,
but my whole life I've only procrastinated.
Thinking of when I will be a man,
when I haven't realized I've only ran.