Substance

Who knew poetry,

Words flowing from the innermost being onto paper, unobstructed by convention,

Could be so hard.

Because what is real and necessary and important

is hard to put into words,

hard to admit in any sort of way

that could be concrete and incriminating.

I feel, I hurt, I fail, I am not perfect,

Those are not things so readily admitted

or accepted.

Tell me instead that you are fine, everything is good

And we can both move on with our lives

Never touching, never disturbing,

the uncomfortable,

the depth of substance

beyond the surface.

Well here it is,

my confession,

my admittance.

You thought I am always happy and silly, one-sided.

You were wrong.

Sometimes I am sad, for seemingly no reason.

I fear failure, but yet I fail and

sometimes I hate who I've become.

I get lonely.

Sometimes I cry at night.

There are moments when I think of

my unclear future

and I am silently overwhelmed.

Sometimes I fear I will never be

who I am supposed to be.

I am broken.

Does that make me guilty?

If I spoke this to you, would you cast me aside,

would you condemn me

because I broke the rules of society?

Because I dared say

what is supposed to stay inside?

Because I dared to admit

I am not fine?