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I JUST WRITE ABOUT MYSELF

You might think I write about you. 
Because that’s what we poets do.
You cut us open and we bleed right onto the paper.
That’s why writing seems so effortless  - all we do is document and rephrase and present it as an original piece of art.
Plot twist - You’ll never find other people in one of my pieces, 
even if you think you recognize yourself, 
even if I quote you and post our whole conversation on the internet.

I never write about you.
I use parts of you i find in myself 
and stick them on other things, that bother me, 
to create the monster within I want to kill, so I could sleep at night. 
If I write about your beautiful sense of humor, your lovely heart, 
your amazing strength and all your other flaws, 
I actually talk about how easy it is to break me. How easy I bent.

You could hug me and stab the knife in my back 
and I’d thank you, for touching me.
You could stand in front of me, with a gun in your hand 
and I’d think I deserve it, because I’m an easy target.
You could kill me by pulling the trigger 
and I’ll still blame me, because I didn’t run fast enough.
I just write about myself, 
even if I use your name to describe my weakness.




EVERYTHING I WRITE ABOUT IS A LIE

every kiss I adore, has never been on my lips, every guy I write about, doesn’t exist, 
every break up I describe, never happened, every love story I tell, is fiction.
every friend I mention is a ghost and dusty memories, 
every me is just high hopes and alcohol,
every feeling I lay down for you to relate is just the same
ever so old emotional crap you’ll find in 
every book in the library.
every line is full of clichés and ripped off a damn love song.
every scene you might picture has already been in a movie, 
every character I describe didn’t die nor has ever been alive.

everything I write about, is a lie.
every time I’ll twist reality,turn it,distort it, until it bleeds into my 
everywhere, my heart and I can cry out 
every word of pain, I never felt.
every person in my poems is just another part of me.
every ex-boyfriend who I never truely loved? That was myself I didn’t like.
every lover, that I couldn’t let go? Again, just me, fighting for my own life.
every friend, who abandoned me? I’m the only one who ever hurt me.
everything I write about is a lie.

Never loved anyone enough, to let them break my heart.
Never wrote anything sincere.
Never spoke the truth.
Never said I would now.




TRANSPARENT

It seems like i share a lot, my pain and my pleasure,
what i experienced with boys and who's been in my bed.
what i want in my hand and what i have in my head.

You think you can taste the words on my lips,
see my deepest secrets in my eyes and feel my past on my skin.
But i'm a blank page and your tongue will never meet my sin.

I seem like an old friend, like a sister of your soul or a lover of your future,
Honey, i'm none of that.
I'm just a stranger from the internet.

You think i'm posting my diary, my feelings and my life,
see, i'm just writing down what i witness around me,
just remembering what someone once told me.

I'm telling her story, i'm mirroring his thoughts,
Rephrasing your words, but never crossing the line
because i'm not presenting mine.


You need to remember,that those are just words, not my flesh ot blood.
and even though some parts of my brain might be transparent,
You're not able to see through me and our minds will never work concurrent.

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