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?
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