My parents didn't raise a fighter but its what I am.
So when They give up it kills me
And when I fight and push against what's socially acceptable it hurst them.
I find that all of the people i make friends with
Are off kilter
People that are broken beyond my repair
I try to put them back together again
They do say that birds of a feather flock together
Maybe its because The sane people make me feel
Like the odd one out
Or Maybe its because the Crazies
Make me feel sane
But anyways, i can already see what will be the death of me
I've somehow started referring myself as the drifter amongst drifters
This isn't my makeup
This is my war paint. I put it on everyday so i can remind myself i am fighting a loosing battle with the world.
The true reason I wear makeup each day
It feels like I keep
my feelings in a bucket
And each day
it gets heavier
Until I empty it.
But until Then
I carry this bucket around
It drags in the dirt behind me
and weighs me down.
And at the end of each day
I feel so heavy myself.
Every night I sort
through the bucket,
All the anger is crusted
to the bottom
and It's impossible to scrub away
Happiness is always falling out.
It takes a lot more happiness to fill that bucket
and even then it weights
less that even a speck of anger.
It takes a drop of sadness, a smidge
of pain, or even a dash of
frustration to overpower the happiness and
shove it from the bucket.
Finally one day I look
down at this bucket of mine and
I realize, I'm tired
of lugging it around
and anger of my past self.
Tonight I empty my bucket
I'll let the pain and sadness
and set the anger free
After all I can't hold on to it
We talk about
like it doesn't
We talk about
but we don't
We talk about that
over there, but
she didn't do a
And then we have the audacity to
laugh it off
no big deal
That's all we do now
laugh and talk
Maybe we don't
what we're talking about
instead of pretending to have the
we should get a feel
take the pain we've inflicted
And maybe just maybe
we'll get how
big of a deal
it really is
I have yet to find something good
in saying bye
I rarely say it to my mother or father, friends, siblings,
or people I've just met
I have every intent on seeing
you again, so why
would i say good bye?
So instead i part with
See you soon,
It was a pleasure to meet you,
and my favorite;
I refuse to contort my ways to appease you
You and your broken ways.
I refuse to change my life to match a broken society.
A society with an incurable illness.
I refuse to be a plaything.
A one time entertainer.
I refuse your ******* reality and substitute my ******* own.
So Go Shove it.
Don't tell me what to do or who to be
I Used To Be an Optimistic
Believing everything was black and white.
It was the first summer in our new
I was six or seven
My Father needed help in the lawn so feeling
in a helping mood, I went out.
His hands were in the dirt and his forehead
He waved his arm at a small,
Go pull weeds.
Not one to question him while, he was busy,
I went over to inspect the flower- i mean ****
How could something so tiny, even more do than my hands,
be considered a ****?
My tiny mind thought weeds were
dark green and barley clinging
to life, with thorns that sliced at
other helpless plants and animals.
Almost like bad people.
I imagine it was then that
My small mind had begun
at the idea that plants and people alike
could deceive you.
My first poem I've posted.
— The End —