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between the fabric of realities
if one searches, one might find
a mass of timelines and lifetimes
all like strings intertwined

and picking apart the strands
one might just see
the lifetime, the timeline
of the author of this poem, me.

and as i pick at my string
i begin to realise
that somehow somewhere it so happened
that my string was full of lies

my very existence was a fallacy
affect others it did not
removing my string would not make a difference
contrary to what i thought

making a difference
was something i never did
it would be so much better
if that string of mine were hid

somewhere somehow i wish
i had never existed from the start
then maybe the world would be a better place
and have one less lonely heart.