Don't call me a poet, because I'm nothing but an untitled crippled feeling
don't call me a poet, because I'm nothing but a person who smokes cigarettes to pass time
Don't call me a poet, because I'm nothing but a person who has notebooks full of past suicidal entries
Don't call me a poet, because I'm nothing but a person who wonders if faith should really be put on the shoulders of a sense I can't see
Don't call me a poet, because I'm nothing but a aqueduct of black and white emotions
Don't call me a poet, because I hate writing and remembering things that have affected me, but I don't know how else to vent so catch me spilling blood on paper as a form of expression
Don't call me a poet, because I'm nothing but a person who hasn't made a dollar of a passion he doesn't even think he's good at

I can't face the truth even if I had time for it, honestly

Oh me, faceless trains remind me how foolish I can be, I crave useless years to come for some reason, I question why things happen for a reason sometimes, but I've rose from what I'm feeling from under the umbrella; scared..
I've rose, and everything I'm about to remember these days, can go **** itself.