You call for the truth, to know my hurt.
You ponder at the tears staining my shirt.
I say I'm okay, and you know it's a lie,
But I mean it; I really won't tell you why.
No, I don't hate you. Yes, I know you care.
No, I won't tell you why, or when, or where.
It happened, okay? Yes, I got hurt and now I cry.
Yes, it's the truth. Yes, sometimes I want to die.
Can you blame me? Can you really say
That you would be fine with being used and thrown away?
Can you think of the pain? Can you remember the fear?
So how can you fault me for one lousy tear?
No, I don't blame you because you didn't know.
I bottle my pain and rarely let it show.
I guess all I'm saying is that I don't mean
To neglect you or fight you or cause a big scene.
I'm sorry I'm horrid and I'm sorry I cry.
I'm sorry that I've cheated and stolen and lie.
I'll try to be better, but there's no guarantee.
I guess now you know a little more about me.
YOU ARE READING
Peeking Through the Window
PoetryA book filled with poetry I've written and am writing. I'm considering trying to get published, but I don't think I'm really good enough. Please feel free, by the way, to leave comments. I enjoy knowing what people think, as long as they are not r...
