These Songs

I don't know why I'm writing;

I've nothing new to say,

And I try to make the words beautiful, 

But they don't come out that way.

I read them over and over,

And my friends tell me that they're fine,

But deep inside, I still know

That the words just aren't right.

I haven't written in ages,

And I don't really want to try,

But it's better to put pen to paper

Then to let strangers see me cry.

I don't know what I'm doing;

This feels like a mistake.

You'll get the wrong idea;

But there are worse mistakes to make.

I'm all out of ideas;

Well, ideas that are good,

And maybe I shouldn't share them,

Even if I could.

They're stronger than I thought they were,

These words that I've used,

They're too painful, raw, and real.

To show them all to you.

I want to hide these songs;

I don't want to be them.

I'll keep them in the dark inside,

Where no one else can see them.