For the good listener

I am not writing about love today.
I am writing about kohl-smudged eyes that dance when she looks up
I am writing about clichés that become true
I am writing because I hate clichés
I am writing not because it's nice to write
But because it's bearable when you see the words speak out
Because feeding myself lies isn't helpful
But sometimes I forget to pay attention
And the line between truth and lies gets blurred
Sometimes I fall into the pit
And instead of trying to wake up
I look at the bottom
The darkness is overwhelming until she lights the tunnel up
She doesn't realize she saved a life
And I fall again and again to be saved
Again and again.
I write because I can't speak properly
I write because I am at a loss for words.
I write because writing is a second chance handed to you.
I write because only in paper the lies are true.
I write not to impress, but to collect the imperfections scattered
I can't even write very well.
But I write like a selfish man, not bothering to care anymore.