Three lines, no punctuation, and the poem manages to contradict itself before it ends. It is signed only "amone" and headed by three asterisks, the usual mark of an untitled piece. It starts in the middle of a conversation we never heard. "and no I'm not okay": the opening "and" suggests something has already been said, and the "no" answers a question that isn't on the page. It is probably the most ordinary question there is, *are you okay?* We are dropped straight into the reply.
The interest lies in the turn that follows. After the blunt admission, the speaker adds "so please my dear / don't believe anything I say." The small word "so" promises a logical consequence: because I'm not okay, my words can't be trusted. One reading is that the speaker expects to keep hiding. They will say "I'm fine," or "leave me alone," or something harsher, and they ask the person they love to see through it. But the word "anything" makes a trap. If nothing the speaker says is to be believed, then "I'm not okay" must be doubted too, and the confession dissolves as soon as it is made. This is a cousin of the old liar's paradox, the puzzle of the person who announces "I always lie." Here it isn't a game. The speaker cannot be believed when they say they are fine, and cannot be believed when they say they are not. The poem acts out how pain can make itself impossible to communicate, and how asking for help can sound like pushing it away.
The construction is bare but careful. The lines have six, four and eight syllables. The short middle line, "so please my dear," works like a lowered voice or an intake of breath. It is the only moment of tenderness, and "my dear" sits oddly beside the flat, everyday "okay," a slightly old-fashioned endearment in a very modern sentence. The final line is the longest, and it runs on without a full stop, as if the speaker, once started, cannot find the place to finish. The poem stops rather than ends, and the sentence stays open.
Sound ties the frame together. "okay" and "say" rhyme, so the first and last lines close around "dear" like hands. The rhyme links what the speaker is (not okay) with what the speaker does (say), and the poem suggests these are the same problem. "okay" is also one of the most disposable words in English, the stock answer to "how are you?" To say "I'm not okay" is to refuse that script. Then the poem immediately worries about whether the refusal can be heard.
There is almost no imagery in the usual sense, no weather, objects or metaphors. That absence is a choice. The poem has nothing to look at, only a voice to listen to, and its few key words all belong to the vocabulary of trust: "no," "okay," "believe," "say." "Believe" is the heaviest of them, a word of faith, and the speaker uses it to ask for faith to be withheld. Even the page behaves like speech. It is lowercase and unpunctuated, and the only capitals are the two "I"s, so the speaker's self stands out in a text that otherwise lets itself go quiet.
What makes the poem worth reading is how much it does with so little. It reads like a message sent in a hurry, which is an inference from its tone and shape and not a known fact. It doesn't explain why the speaker is unwell or who "my dear" is, and the gaps are part of its effect. The reader is placed where the addressee stands, holding a statement that is both a cry for help and a request to be ignored. The poem ends without telling us what to do with it, so it passes the problem to us. Do you take the words at face value, or listen to what sits behind them?