well liked, not well known
it's midnight.
i want to sleep, but my mind;
it wants to keep me awake.
the only thought running through my godawful head
is the following:
how sad is it that
everybody likes me
but only because nobody knows me?
and then i think:
how sad is it that
those who I've let know me
have never seemed to like me?
and afterwards i wonder:
how sad is it that
maybe god didn't create me
to have close friends to share jokes with,
to share thoughts with,
to share my heart and soul with..
and i continue by pondering:
how sad is it that
maybe i was put on this earth
solely to be admired from afar
simply to be hated once near?
you know what?
i'm like a super cute shirt at a store,
you know what I'm talking about.
the one that looks amazing on a hanger
but then,
you take it to the fitting room
and you put it on,
and you realize it's actually really ugly.
yeah, that's me.
except i'm a human
with emotions and enough tears
to fill the oceans. i'm not a shirt,
who couldn't care less of what
somebody thought of it.
although i usually wish i were.
it's now 12:23 A.M.
i want to sleep, but my mind;
it wants to keep me awake.
the only thought running through my godawful head
is whether i want to be well liked or
whether i want to be known for who i am,
instead of who i'm wanted to be.
YOU ARE READING
diary of a shitty (aspiring) poet
Puisimy poetry may not be good, but it's real and people do say "it's the thought that counts" so, when it comes down to it isn't realness good enough?
