From, Me

From, Me.

From Me, who doesn't quite know who that is yet.

From Me, who lives life out of spite on a bet.

Wagering what, who, where, how

We'll laugh, lie, and let down

The ones who we promise to save.

The heroes don't save every day.

But the heroes are telling the story.

We don't get to hear every side.

There's more than one person who's fighting for something

Or someone in heart and in mind.

Expressing a word isn't truthful for me

I honestly don't have the time

Or the word count to properly tell all the stories

Of the legends whose spirits have died.

So From, Me I will give you an answer:

Two words only matter in the end

Your name on a block of pale gray and a quote

And some numbers are what it all meant.

From, Me, You should know that it's fruitless

To waste time type typing your words.

I'm breaking the barrier of reader and writer because spoken things aren't always heard.

You need to know this or be hurt.

I know little regarding the real world.

I don't have a checkbook or credit.

I'm listlessly hoping you'll correct my mistakes and stop wasting your time just pretending

That your words will be heard

That your voice is assured

That your poetry grows into more than a letter, more than a set of some words.

But I know you, you'll forget this true warning

Isn't that irony bittersweet?

You'll just keep writing and forget your own meaning before you forget who you are. 

Forgetting who you could be.

To: Me.