The Truth Poem by Concetta Salter

It’s really hard to write these poems,
And know they do no good.
I’ll always be a lonely ghost,
Not saying what I should.

Poems that give a sense of hope,
That I will never find.
Hold a knife against my throat,
Cause I would rather die.

I write the things I want to say.
The things I want to do.
I try to think of all the ways,
To hide behind the truth.

Fantasy’s and daydreams.
That’s the poems I write.
There filled with ifs and maybes.
And yet they give me life.

The ink that holds my feelings.
The pen that gives me peace.
The paper helps my healing.
The words that help me breathe.

Perhaps I’m just a freak show.
But I don’t really care.
So ends another poem.
So ends another tear.