Hi. 

I’m a poet. 

I’m no future Poe, 

But I can be close to it. 

Fame isn’t the same, 

As a new frame. 

For the mirror I look into, 

Which just seems to change. 

I’m going insane. 

I need a break, 

You don’t see what’s at stake. 

Just wait. 

I’m tired. 

I’m drained. 

I’m not right in the brain, 

It's something I can’t explain. 

How don’t you see, 

I want to be me. 

Who is me? 

The frame, 

It doesn’t close. 

The cracks, 

I made. 

The reflection, 

That isn’t the same. 

It’s the art of repairing a shard. 

A shard whose smooth edges, 

Seems to cut stained skin. 

The pen leaves a print, 

For which another's hand doesn’t compare, 

To the fame of my frame.