This is me
Fatigued beyond my limits
Alone
Not lonely
But, alone
The way I prefer to be
This is me
A quiet, yet healing soul who only lashes out if my peace is interrupted
No I am not angry
No I am not depressed
I am a quiet man who prefers to be left alone within his own shadow,
Never to be bothered again
This is me
A man who loves to write
A man who reads words and visions them through his sight but,
Just might,
Sit in silence and observe the chaos and simpletons around him that cover up behind lies and laughter when they really sit at home, in the corner and;
Reminisce
Cry until they no longer can
Punch themselves and tear themselves apart for the inevitability that has stumbled upon them and they cannot change it
This is me
I don’t have many friends
I cannot tell the difference between beginning and end because whether twisted, bent or turned the opposite way,
The end is the beginning and the beginning is the end
Let me in
Or I will force my way in as if I were a drill and you were a screw that needed to be punctured through a wall
You will never see it coming
Nor would you care
Try me if you dare and once you fail,
I will stand over you, not to gloat, not to judge but to tell you that;
This!
Is!
Me!
A poet that’s full of words but can only say them if they’re written on the paper
The beautiful and soothing music that’s coming from the pencil as I lay the paint so elegantly across the paper,
Making it cry
Writing the words of a poet's lullaby
Because that’s what we do
We write, write and write some more but we never die
We continue to write the poets lullaby from generations ago, now and later
Even when we die
This is me

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