Of a Poet and Myself

This is me expressing my fear, and the fact that, honestly, I don't know what I'd do if people knew what I'm like on the inside. I'm messy, and.. wrong.

I am a soul, one of many,

Not a nickel, not a dime, simply a lonesome penny.

 But when I write, I spread my wings,

I create magic, of all things.

Magic in words, they tell my story,

Of foxes and bears, just a bit gory.

Somehow, though, I call through glaciers and ice

To my heart, my virtue and vice

They are crooked, that much is true,

My morals aren’t strong, why they don’t stand tall, I have no clue,

Except for an unsatisfying childhood.

Many horrors, and perhaps I’m not a good

Girl, I understand that.

Maybe I’d just like to be, not a straggly cat

That nobody wants.

Because it’s real, nobody cares, it’s not like I flaunt

My voice, I keep it silent for my own safety.

If anyone saw who I really was, they’d leave me. I don’t do things bravely,

I do them cautiously, so I don’t get hurt,

And I can keep myself under wraps. If I ever blurt

Stuff that doesn’t make sense, I hope

That people will ignore it, just forget I said it, I won’t mope

Around about that. But now it’s time to end this

Before I slip up, and reveal what I am, that won’t be bliss,

I can assure you. Goodbye, don’t hate

Me for doing this, please. It’s only faulty fate.

 

The End

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