Five Poem by Hell 'Farya

I've been called rash names:
One, a lunatic; I am that.
I stir my noodles and empathize.
Oh, poor little strand,
How did you end up on my plate?
But who knows
what the next chapter shall be?

I will sit amongst them and talk
in the void where only I see.
Two, 'Poor old soul, ' which I wasn't.
My shadows would pause.
Their loyalty is as blank as they look.
By dawn, however,
they move on like mere strangers.

The words of my mouth I'll craft,
and never will I say too much.
A grin and a frown.
Three, 'Misanthrope, ' they gossiped.
But I am the one bereaved of love.
Perhaps,
hope and love lie beyond this world.

When Pen, my companion, pulled out to me
and scribbled with its prominence
my woes, sorrows, and anguish,
I will be gazed upon in their multitudes.
Four, 'Weirdo, ' they chatter.
Even though I care,
the next page I'll flip and write on.

I've been called rash names:
One, a lunatic; I am that.
Two, 'Poor old soul, ' which I wasn't.
Three, 'Misanthrope, ' they gossiped.
Four, 'Weirdo, ' they chatter.
But I am curious,
Five, what is it you've heard them call you?