Although it might be mistaken as such, it is not poetry. It is not romance. It hints at mystery, but falls far short. It suffers from a lack of sufficient fiction. As fact, it masquerades without flattery and with no illusion that anyone can possibly be fooled. What is the masquerade? He is not sure.
It is his life. It is full of heartbreak, remorse, and unrequited love. It is of the most common and still unique sort. He wants to tell it. He wants to spill his love and his darkest secrets into the ears of someone–anyone–he feels might care. There are many who will listen for a dollar, but none to care: not one. For a while there was a suspicion that there was one existing in the mist who was concerned for the agony he suffered. But now, not so much. Still he continues on and for no apparent reason. Should he forge ahead anyway. The jury is still out.
Too much reality, there is, and certainly insufficient fiction.