They called me a 'poet',
I wrote of my pain,
of the people who hurt me,
and brought me to shame.

I wrote of the violence,
that went on at home;
I wrote of the crying,
I did when alone.

I put pen to paper,
and out my heart came;
but looking back on it,
it all sounds the same.

My life is so great,
well, it could be worse,
but I wrote of my life,
as if I had been cursed.

I've been so blessed with love,
and with friends who care,
but I wrote of my life,
as if no one were there.

So here I am now,
this page in front of my face,
and I look at my soul,
with a thought of disgrace.

Ashamed of my self,
for how bad I made my life seem,
when in fact, all along..
I've been living a dream.
 
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