I don't know why people hate
We don't get to choose our fate
I can't wait for the day
when we are all entitled to say
this is me
and who I'm going to be
and no judgement will be past
it was never a thing made to last
anti-anything will not exist
this is the life I want to live

Stuck in this shell.
Like a part of hell
it torments.
But at moments
it's like a calm sea
so empty.
Until a storm comes
and I'm the only one
and it goes back to hell
and I can't escape this shell.

Pain grasps around your chest
digging in as you take a breath
you try to swim but you feel weak
so you sink into the deep
the deep, where light is dim
and all because you couldn't swim

I've grown distant.
I've grown appart.
I've separated
myself, my heart.

My identity hidden.
My soul is lost.
my heart was beating
but then it stopped.

I carried on without it,
slowly dying inside.
As my existence was descending,
I started to wither and hide.

In the shadows I lurked
and barely spoke a word.
My mind started to work.
I started to wonder,
my thoughts couldn't stop
I started to ponder.

What would life be
if my heart would just beat?
My identity seen.
The dudum dudum on repeat.

Where I wasn't distant,
still held together.
I could be myself,
truly forever.

Believe me, you deserved someone better

it is my birthday.
but the world has long disowned me.
honestly--I ask--why do I bother?
as there must be something there for me--out in the viscera.
for I, am still here.

it is my birthday.
but the public has long shunned me.
faces thick as bedrock and eyes as dull as mint wrappers.
and they use sound to blind them.

it is my birthday.
and no one seems to help.
for it is not always happy to know,
you're one day closer into the arms of the cease-r.

it is my birthday.
and words rule no meaning.
for no one listens to me.
and no one hears what I'm hearing.

it is my birthday.
and my marrow weakens as I breath.
but bones sleep with welded lips 'neath the coat of earth.
and--with shame--I shall, too, be nothing but empty research.

it is my birthday.
and I force myself to nature.
O sand, is it true they pick you up and throw you in the wind?
O sea, is it true you get stuck in the mouths and stomachs of the young?
O hair, is it true you scream when the air beats you?
but I don't hear--and I know many.

it is my birthday.
and I breath false air.
is it true the ones that speak ill are on their death bed?
is it wrong I wish for them to speed up time?
is it wrong I point the reaper in their direction?
so I needn't worry of their illness spreading to mine.

it is my birthday.
and we are all gathered for tea.
the masochists sit by the sadists; that's the rule,
so the sadist may draw that ball-point pen deep along their slate skin--and whisper the names of forgotten authors,
so they may both moan with delicious harmony together--for two presents in one.

it is my birthday.
and the masochists ask me to join.
they write each other's eulogies
and revise--revise--'til there are none.

it is my birthday.
for now you know not,
of what I wish, but what I need,
a master.

for I am not one.

it is my birthday.
and not all wishes deem true,
for it seems no one cares of my words--my work--my blood--my tears--
a hymn to whomever it may concern--have you no mercy?

it is my birthday.
and I have not found them.
I have not found the right.
for only airless voices with no mouths, eyes that wish for many more, and souls that have lost time have found me.

and I am one of them.

and 'neath my heart,

I always will be.

for it is my birthday,

and wishes don't come true.