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Poetry

It's only at night that you hear the faint whispers of the writer's pen trailing paper. [COMPLETED]

I am not who I am

18 1 2

by LeroyLakeWrites

by LeroyLakeWrites

The truth is

My pens,

Hands

And my keyboards

Know me

More than anybody

On planet Earth.

The truth is

The truth about me

Is glaring

In every stanza

And metaphor

I conjure up...

In every poem

I sign off

With my pen name.

The truth is

No one knows me...

Just these inanimate objects

That console me

Or celebrate with me

Depending on the occasion -

And for now

That will suffice.

I feel no guilt

Knowing my friends

Are only seeing the surface

Of the vast oceans of uniqueness

That I am.

I feel no guilt

Knowing,

"I am not who I am".