• If I were a real poet,
    Would I be proud of the poems I write?
    Would they look pitiful,
    Or really great?
    Would they express my love for you?
    Or how much I hate you.
    Would they ask myself questions,
    Or ask you all the questions I couldn't bring myself to?
    Or would they be full of passion,
    Full of love,
    Full of happiness.
    Full of the things I lack today.
    Could I be crying right now?
    Could I be smiling?
    All I know is that I feel numb inside,
    Still searching for a place to grip.
    If you were still here,
    Would I still be myself?
    But the truth is,
    I am no poet.
    Even though I'm here writing a poem,
    The words don't rhyme,
    There is no pattern.
    Those the poem reflects feelings,
    Can you even understand?