The cult of self,
I’ve had to note to self
how I’ve lost it all,
due to a heartbreak fall.
Running past time, I’ve hit the wall,
now time’s running out.
I write for neither fame nor clout.
Do I have lust or love?
Or have I learned to love the lust?
I say to myself:
“Do not blame us for our flaws
we are a child of social construct.”
But I know I’m not,
I run to excuses to feel safe.
But when I write when I feel safe,
I write to know myself.
Someone once said:
“Your sincerity only exists in your writings.”
Because deep down I know I am fighting,
thus, I make wrongs that need writing.