Is it possible to write a poem
Without knowing who its written to?
I read what was once fiction
And it all seems to be about you.
Somehow my pencil can predict my future
Months preceding as I scrawl out
Useless random homework assignments
Written for the sake of being written, about
Artistic things, so I can feel chic as I sip my decaf latte
Strange how, upon rereading them,
my words mean so much more than dim lights, and coffee
does my subconscious speak the truth?
Or is coincidence a culprit?
Spoken aloud, my lies can be
The truest things Ive ever heard;
Only one things sure: I am obsessed
In the surest sense of the word.














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