You say I'll never understand
Because to you, I'm whole.
The thing is, I'm ahead of your game,
And I am in control.
The spiderwebs that fill my head,
The boiling blood of my brain,
Tell me all things I want
I'll never, ever obtain.
You think because I don't complain
I'm happy all the time.
To me that thought's ridiculous—
There's no reason to that rhyme.
My mind is a smoking circuit.
Death is a trending topic.
My mind is dark, my thoughts are too.
You're too blind to see— myopic.
Your simple, shortsightedness
Has all but proved my theory:
You only care for me when you've time,
You are tired of me, and grow weary.
So please, tell me I'm not broken,
Please, tell me I'm "too good."
When I roll my sleeves and lift my shirt,
You'll wish you'd understood.
And maybe you do, who am I to say?
What's to say you don't see it every day,
That my heart is worn, I'm giving out,
I need to yell, scream, and shout.
But I'm close to six feet under,
Digging my own grave bit by bit.
"It's okay to ask for help,"
I said. What a hypocrite.
So tell me I'm not damaged enough
To hear you talk of days you rue.
Maybe you're right all along,
But I'll still listen to you—
Unlike you.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 4:37 PM UTC
You say I'll never understand
Because to you, I'm whole.
The thing is, I'm ahead of your game,
And I am in control.
The spiderwebs that fill my head,
The boiling blood of my brain,
Tell me all things I want
I'll never, ever obtain.
You think because I don't complain
I'm happy all the time.
To me that thought's ridiculous—
There's no reason to that rhyme.
My mind is a smoking circuit.
Death is a trending topic.
My mind is dark, my thoughts are too.
You're too blind to see— myopic.
Your simple, shortsightedness
Has all but proved my theory:
You only care for me when you've time,
You are tired of me, and grow weary.
So please, tell me I'm not broken,
Please, tell me I'm "too good."
When I roll my sleeves and lift my shirt,
You'll wish you'd understood.
And maybe you do, who am I to say?
What's to say you don't see it every day,
That my heart is worn, I'm giving out,
I need to yell, scream, and shout.
But I'm close to six feet under,
Digging my own grave bit by bit.
"It's okay to ask for help,"
I said. What a hypocrite.
So tell me I'm not damaged enough
To hear you talk of days you rue.
Maybe you're right all along,
But I'll still listen to you—
Unlike you.
This poem makes my own blood boil.
Just because someone seems okay doesn't mean they are. There is absolutely no point to the pain game. Because the world is full of sad, sad, people, who simply care too much for themselves, and nothing for others.
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