Wordcrafter's Insincerity

O deception!
Lying is the language of poets, or at least of my own pen,
for try as I might I have no claim to misery.
For every inkdrop of melodrama I fabricate,
somewhere one truly feels it.

I who have never known solitude mourn my state-
elsewhere is borne gracefully (if bitterly) a life alone,
but that life is not mine.

I who have never known wounds of the soul
lament the mere pinprick of unrequited romance-
elsewhere is buried a blade in one's back by beloved hand,
but that back is not mine.

I who have never known hunger beg for nourishment-
elsewhere is carved the outline of ribs in flesh,
moribund skin taut over only bone,
but that body is not mine.

I am a child!
A child weighing my miniscule pain against the great sufferings,
cheating the scales to call them equal.
I am a child in thought and deed, attempting by word to seem wise and aged.
Unwrinkled hands feigning leathery skin and calluses spill these words into existence.
And what an injustice that they can still write!
Give able hands to one who speaks truth
(and even now I lie,
For certainly I do not wish to be robbed of dexterity,
however just it may be.)

How lucky for me, then,
that such transfer is impossible.
I shall hoard the use of my appendages perhaps wiser,
going forth chastised with a half-sincere vow of sincerity.