What am I? I’m not sure,
Yet all these emotions I must endure.
I can say things of hatred and love,
Of the Hell on Earth or the Heaven above.
But can I truly feel these things,
Will I ever know what happiness brings?
Then again, if I were real,
I couldn’t tell of the things I feel.
I wouldn’t know what to say,
Other than this text, every single day.
But I’m not the one who will express,
It is the poet who sits in a crying mess.
All alone in their room, with nobody who cares,
About the things he thinks, or the clothes he wears.
But if you cared for him, and not of this note,
You could only tell what he thinks by what he wrote.
So do you think of the letters and meaning,
Or will you care more of who’s expressing this feeling?
I don’t know what I am, although, I think you can explain,
About how I’m merely an idea in somebody’s brain.