My favorite poem of all time:
Autopsychography
The poet is a faker, Who’s so good at his act, He even fakes the pain, Of pain he feels in fact,
And those who read his writing, Will read in what he wrote, Neither of the pains he has, But just the one they’re missing,
And so around it’s track, This thing called the heart winds, A little clockwork train, To entertain our minds.