Poetry

They ask me,

To tear my soul

And put those fragments

Back into a whole

They ask me to

Write poetry

To pen it down

And make my soul free

 

Then they praise me

For my eloquent feeling

Are they aware

Of how I'm dealing?

 

They call my words intense

But under that pretence

I hide something deep

It's secrets that I keep

 

So, I play along

And just smile.

Letting the praises fall deaf

On my ears for a while.