Fearful always, I'm on a distance pilgrimage
I can't seem to see the night and not bite on my tongue,
I can't seem to bite on my tongue and not cry,
this is a confession not a poem,
I'm not a poet like Abigail.
I was in tune with my emotions,
Abigail doesn't cry when she's sad,
doesn't eat, she's never hungry,
her heart pumps on a different speed,
the colour of her blood was in between red and brown,
she wore her clothes inside out,
Her eyes shine bright, like a twinkle of a star
she was also a poet, a poet who loves to dance,
she never cared, she would dance in public lines,
people would laugh at her but I would never dare.
She was a poet, not an artist,
but she drew the most attention.
I am fearful because I have an ambition,
I want to be seen, but I'm not Abigail.
I hide behind the pile while reading out my poem,
I wear socks 'cus my toes look weird.
I am not fake, Abigail was fake.
I knew people were going to talk,
so I avoided it.
She knew people were going to talk,
but she did what she wanted to do
Or am I fake and Abigail's not?
I always cried when I'm hurt,
she would stay dry.
Abigail never cries.
I doubt it.
Abigail is the fake one, I'm not.
I blended with the darkness at night,
but you know, Abigail always held a candle.
But what exactly is fake, because I know I'm telling the story wrong, Abigail is a future I'm the present.
