I hate that I don't have someone
who admires me
I don't care about most people,
Yet I care too much about others
I hate that I'm so far from our friendship
I hate that you don't think about me
And I want you to want me
Maybe as a friend.
I would love to be a writer
And would love to be notable
Yet you don't care about me,
And care too much about others.
This is not about love
This is not about us
This is just about misery
'bout how I'm not alive.
I complain way too much
And do nothing to change it
I think a lot about things
And do not put them into practice.
Should I care that much about you
or about the body of this poem
while you couldn't care less abut me
And yet too much about them?
