It’s funny how fame strikes
How I need to be quieter, subtler
If you are reading
I know you are reading
How you stifle my creativity
But it is still there
Just hidden in my book
The deepest thoughts about you.
Hidden, but only to the point that you need to ask.
I just want you to know what you’re getting into.
You read these poems.
You know who I am,
really just the shell of a man
Fake on the outside and dying inside
You know I need more help than you can give.
But even as I tell you this, I lie to myself
Theres no point in running
Pretending that even though
I’m scared of hurting you
Because of how bad I hurt
How hard it is for me to-
I tell you these things
To run from me, to not worry
to find someone better, what you deserve
I still hope the day will come where
you pick me. and save me.