Is it here?
Ignorance is convincing yourself of what isn’t true.
a world of words,
cooler than air,
often a hell,
for those in despair,
like I, in those moments when,
everything seems so swell.
The realest poems I do write,
They hide in chests unopened,
Locked away never to be read,
By the subjects about whom I’ve spoken.
The lovers who have done me wrong,
And the friends who haven’t a clue,
Of the pain and suffering I incur.
Why don’t they just leave me alone?