People often ask me:
"What is your favorite poem?",
To which I reply: "I don't know."
Then, people ask me:
"And who is the poet?",
To which I gladly reply: "I don't know,
Perhaps Edgar Allan Poe."
But people always forget to ask:
"How can someone be happy
Wearing a mask?"
And they always forget to ask:
"Why do you even write
When it's not really a task?",
"Well", I wondered,
"Why shouldn't I? Stop asking me why."
And for my poor mind,
I feed myself with unspeakable thoughts,
I lay down in bed
(perhaps in daytime it is something bad),
And realize that I am truly sad.
"I should be dead", I say,
But no, it's just another melancholic day.
Now, people can go back to their lies,
While I sit here and shut my ears and eyes.