Limits

Its funny how you can play God--
write of imaginary people
living imaginary lives,
with their imaginary truths
and imaginary lies.
And it's sad to see how my words had to be simplified
to be able to be enjoyed by everyone,
while the intellectuals cringe
at what a sellout I'd become,
but what exactly am I "selling out"
to, seeing as I'm still broke and undiscovered.
Normally, I write like a poet who was born drunk,
but continues to drink to become plastered,
while I myself am sober,
if not drunk merely off of my vile of lost hours of sleep.
And I only write this way now
because I've read too much poetry,
but you'd tell me that was impossible.
And I'd write to you of how I appreciated
that you crushed dreams,
but only dampened mine.
And how I lied when I said you made me hate poetry,
when in reality, you opened my eyes to it.
I would tell you that I was now
sad and alone,
and you would tell me to create a poem,
but sometimes words can't really suffice,
when you've written the same poem again and again,
and writing autobiographically
becomes so dull.
...I wish I never would've been 
peer-pressured by my own curious mind
to take a hit
of poetry,
and become so quickly addicted.
But I want to thank you,
for guiding me,
and turning what I once thought
was the best I could do,
into mediocre,
because you wanted to stretch
my horizons.
These imaginary people
living imaginary lives
have all become me,
and that is because I am a poet,
and not a fiction writer.