I wish I lived.

I fake too much. I mimic too much. I don’t know who I am.

I laugh too much. Like a dangerous bitch. *belly-cramp*

I cringe too much. I advise too much. I hate my fans.

“Only fools fall for me.” Only lovers lose and die young.

I have had a bitter taste. And I don’t make sense with my tongue.

Be it with being myself, or with philosophical discourses, as I prolong.

I am not a liar. I tell truths of events, but not of who I am.

The circumstances are real in my head, but not of where I belong.

This world, real, is not an idea, it’s what is mine, where I am.

I love the ghost-haunts, the self-taunts. Uh. Damn.

I don’t know what I truly love, what purpose I serve. Just sham.

I wish at stars, talk to them, and put Star Walk 2 to blame.

I wish I touched his face when I could, glad that he came.

I wish I loved like he does, so I’d hurt the same.

But I hurt behind time, I polish my ego, and I play games.

With the thoughts of his going, and that of the fuel, the whim.

I wish people wrote of love, wrote of science, and I wrote his name.

I wish people regretted less, I wish I lived, when I lived with him.

I swear so loud neighbours hear, I shouldn’t. How lame!

I wish I never did, I wish I lived much more and I know I do.

Because I’m twenty-two.

And a fake poet.

In stars.

Liar.

Not born any better.