Coming Clean

I am, amongst many things, a poet.
I write poetry for love
for loss
for laughter
for fun
and for... whatever.
Well this time is different.
This time
This time I'm writing for me.

I know I'm melodramatic
and as I feel my heart ache
others look in contempt
as though I am a liar
a faker
an "attention-seeker"
Well,
I have lied
and I have faked
and I have sought attention.
But nonetheless
I still feel this pain in my soul
and I know
somewhere within the depths
of my subconscious
that the only person
who can fix this pain
this agony
this self-degradation
and lack of self-value
...
is me.
So I plan to do it.

I am a son.
I am his son.
And though years have gone by
since he acknowledged it
I know he loves me.
I just know it.
I won't go into how I know
or why I know
I just do.
And as I say this,
I can't help but think
of all the times I've buried my head
into the soft hold
of someone close to me
and cried and cried
and asked why he didn't care
why he wanted me gone
why he hated me.
And it makes me hate myself
... more anyway...
Because I know if he had heard
if
if he had heard what I said.
that he didn't care
wanted me gone
HATED me
well,
he would hate himself
and he would cry.
And for so long
I told myself I hated him
I couldn't bare his existence
I know
I couldn't live without him
Not now.
Because I need to know
even if it isn't obvious
I need to know he's there
and that he loves me
just as much as I love him
or else all those things he's said
that I'm a disappointment
a disaster
a...
a failure...
they would all be true.
But they're not
even as I say it, I don't believe it
So I find myself repeating it like a mantra
I'm not
I'm not
I'm not
I'm not
I'm not a disappointment
I'm not a disaster
I am NOT a failure

I am a poet
And this one's for me.