What the f*ck do these words mean
used to write them to feel seen
seems like now I'm hiding here
This sh*t's become something feared
I don't know why I write if nothing's true
But I don't know the reason for half the things I do

The more I show you all these words
The less that they'll fly like birds
I lock them up inside my chest
I'm too afraid to show the rest
What's the point of writing poetry
if nothing of it speaks to me

And maybe it'll be cliché
but if it'll get me through another day
then all of it was worth the risk
Tell me, will all of it be worth the risk?
I owe my life to these torn pages
So do all the poets through the ages

No poet ever rose to fame
without being sure that they lost the game
No I no longer care if you like these words
so long as they fly from my chest like birds
The rhythm's off but at least the rhyme is right
and if you see. this. poet:
shoot.
on.
sight.