I’d Think Myself a Poet if I wasn’t so Self Conscious
Poetry

But I can’t bear it, When they ask me what I possibly do with my existence on this forever-spinning planet, I tell them simply,
I write.
And they ask,
What do you write?
And I can’t bear to tell them,
I write about you.
Because they’ll always ask in shock,
You write about me?!
And that is eventually followed up with
Is that a good thing?
And I’ll have to come up with condensed, non-offensive versions of their fictionalized selves. I have to lie that their negative traits aren’t littered throughout the stanzas. I have to be proud of my work while their eyes glaze over the page, mildly curious but not inspired. I have to fold my hands and pretend they weren’t just used as weapons against their character. So you see, it’s far too much work, And no, You cannot read what I’ve written about you, because simply put my dear, You wouldn’t be able to bear it.
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