I. I always start a poem with I.
It’s always about me and my selfish life.
My perceptions, my mistakes, where my feelings reside.
And the ugly beautiful crazies that form in my mind.
The selfish games, my insecurity’s security.
Fear, love and hope form wings and take flight.
So I write.
I write to tell you this ins’t love.
I’m not falling, just lonely,
Playing selfish with your heart.
I’ll use your warm smile for a sip of my comfort,
Your flattery and checkmates, a dominating art.
Fill me up. Fill it up.
This lonely heart.
It’s a theft but I’m no thief.
I can see behind your glasses.
I’m getting played, you perceive.
This will end, and on repeat.
We’ll each stand tall, each hiding defeat.
Declaring to the world, “the game was on me.”