It’s odd when some identify with me through how I write
Lacking any sort of context as they fabricate insights
As if to say
“It’s all okay
See, I can see you
Because me, I chose to read through what you’ve written”
Some engaged and others smitten
And I wonder who this person is
And where this other version lives
The me they keep on seeing
Far away from what I’m being
How I’m living
Slowly dying
Caring little for the scrying
As they flutter ’round like moths around a plight

It’s strange to have a stranger think there’s parts of me they know
Lacking any kind of contact, as they try to peer below
My very skin
Where I begin
To where I’m ending
As if all the words I’m lending were created
For a reader, duly fated
To allay the woes I’ve written out
With words of praise and love devout
From what is mere illusion
Of a pen dripping confusion,
Where I drown in my creations
Like a garden of detritus where, I promise, nothing here can ever grow