What is love?
What is bliss?
What is happiness?
Does any of it really exist?
They ask me why I write things
That make other people cry
Sometimes they get the idea that
I’d like nothing more than to die
The reason for my writing
Is not that hard to face
I write about truth and experiences
For the world is a sad sad place
It’s hard to smile
Amongst all the hate
Am I doomed to remain here unaltered
Is it my fate?
Things spoken by the voice
Are phony, muffled, and dull
Things taken time to be written down
Speak truly from the writer’s soul
Every time I write something down
A little piece of me goes with it
I give my heart out to the readers
Yet I get no love, or bliss; not a bit
Now I’m writing for myself
Keeping my memoirs close to my heart
I refuse to let others know how I feel
Refuse to let them play a part
For now, I sit here writing
And I give my penitence
My apologies for you who wasted a tear
And those never afflicted by this sudden rush of sense
You can choose to learn from life
Or you can just sit there and stare
In the end life will be gone for me
All the time no one was ever there
March 15, 2001