This is a not-so-great poem I wrote today. I thought I would share.
You ask what is wrong and I
want to answer, freely, openly.
The answer, though, is too long,
too real to tell. I know that
you will not really care to hear it.
You do not really want to know
that I feel I am not good enough.
You have no desire to listen to
me say that I feel that there is
no one who really understands.
It is too cliché, too much of an
excuse for me to really feel.
Still, I want to tell you
everything.
Instead I keep my worries, my
insecurities to myself. They build
and build until I can no longer
stand them. I break down, unable
to resist any longer, but there is
still no one to listen.
