It seems like a response because its not

This isn’t a poem


Right?
I mean, im just another ego induced
self proclaimed writer.
I have no value to you.
every thing you wrote, said, motioned
about how you felt in what I did, made, cared about
or didn’t
It was a lie. But you knew it then
so why fret so hard now?

Is it because with every change of your mind
is a new rant to explain thusly?
every new person in you’re life
someone to love
love long enough to extract a character
then get hurt, or left
and live
“I never cared never cared. They weren’t what I wanted,
I was just teasing them, plying my mark. I am alone alone alone.
But listen to my new batch of soul mates”

You know I don’t believe in souls
I don’t believe in anything
it must be hard to talk to me.

I sound bitter
but Im not
im only concerned with myself
right?

You don’t even read this
anyways
right? I exhaust myself
like you
with bad, great, and mediocre writing
touching trueths, lies, but never
others.

Only our selfs.

Well, I guess myself
you have the immature crowd
that word always seems so nasty, I don’t want it to
and they are more apt to the screen
keeping up on anything created.
I am to
but that’s because of your talents.
Im talented to, and didn’t erase that
And never have been so proud of myself

This is not a poem though
Right?
cause I am not a writer
just someone for a list
someone to read, yours not mine, no one reads this
a good story, bad story, depending on when your fist
hits keys

Im old and young
Bold and timid
Amazing and just another
The only truth and always a liar
A perfect set of arms that will never close
A fit
A child
A dammed broken hope
Something to never travel for
Unless there’s no were to go i guess.

I am more
I know
I am less of course
“Life is the art that you make”