I'm masterfully crafted
and tactfully wrath-fed.
I’m attractive in bed,
but not in your head.
I've tragically bled
and I've practically been dead.
My brain has painfully exploded;
I've basically imploded
a million times again,
a billion times in pain,
it has made me insane
and has made me less vain.
I've paid to be the same,
but I'm so full of shame
that I can't live again.
I've been trying to train
to figure out this brain
to not feel so ashamed
so I can live again
so I can love again
so I can feel again
anything but this pain,
so I can treat a man
as best as I can.
Caught between amazing and crazy,
could seem dazing and hazy;
could have been brazen, but I'm lazy.
I'm not phased, it's just me,
not all that I can be;
I'm just too unhappy
with my lack of identity.
I'm stacking up pity
for the ****** up activities;
all the ******* tragedies
that have happened to me,
that darkened me,
and hardened me.
It's not your ******* fault
so why do you get an assault
every time I get salt
in a wound, I attack;
afraid to go back,
I tend to lose track
of when my words turn black
and there's no going back;
if I let my voice leak
and accidentally speak
while upset and weak;
under pressure, I freak.
*What the **** does that mean?*
Am I not who I seemed?
Am I no longer a dream?
Sorry I break at the seams
because I'm sadly an empathic
and I know it’s pathetic,
it doesn’t fit the aesthetic;
I guess it’s genetic,
but madness is poetic.
My chaos is magnetic
yet I’m not apologetic
because I’ve done my time
just read this rhyme
and you will find
this deranged mind
is a product of the grind
of falling behind,
because I was pushed down
instead of helped up
now I’m trying to come around.
fighting against my genes
to accomplish my dreams
and stop the screams
that are behind the scenes
that flow and stream
glisten and gleam
as if soaked in blood.
They come in floods
and do not scud
they’re thick like mud
and hold me hostage
and are essentially caustic.
I know I’ll find my way
through the pain one day
then I’ll be able to say
that I can stay
instead of running away
and do I ever pray
that later on you may
forgive my crazy play
and I will continue to pay
for the mistakes I’ve made
that will forever weigh
on my conscious, it’ll lay
like a cloud, dark grey.
God help me, some way.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 3:58 PM UTC
I'm masterfully crafted
and tactfully wrath-fed.
I’m attractive in bed,
but not in your head.
I've tragically bled
and I've practically been dead.
My brain has painfully exploded;
I've basically imploded
a million times again,
a billion times in pain,
it has made me insane
and has made me less vain.
I've paid to be the same,
but I'm so full of shame
that I can't live again.
I've been trying to train
to figure out this brain
to not feel so ashamed
so I can live again
so I can love again
so I can feel again
anything but this pain,
so I can treat a man
as best as I can.
Caught between amazing and crazy,
could seem dazing and hazy;
could have been brazen, but I'm lazy.
I'm not phased, it's just me,
not all that I can be;
I'm just too unhappy
with my lack of identity.
I'm stacking up pity
for the ****** up activities;
all the ******* tragedies
that have happened to me,
that darkened me,
and hardened me.
It's not your ******* fault
so why do you get an assault
every time I get salt
in a wound, I attack;
afraid to go back,
I tend to lose track
of when my words turn black
and there's no going back;
if I let my voice leak
and accidentally speak
while upset and weak;
under pressure, I freak.
*What the **** does that mean?*
Am I not who I seemed?
Am I no longer a dream?
Sorry I break at the seams
because I'm sadly an empathic
and I know it’s pathetic,
it doesn’t fit the aesthetic;
I guess it’s genetic,
but madness is poetic.
My chaos is magnetic
yet I’m not apologetic
because I’ve done my time
just read this rhyme
and you will find
this deranged mind
is a product of the grind
of falling behind,
because I was pushed down
instead of helped up
now I’m trying to come around.
fighting against my genes
to accomplish my dreams
and stop the screams
that are behind the scenes
that flow and stream
glisten and gleam
as if soaked in blood.
They come in floods
and do not scud
they’re thick like mud
and hold me hostage
and are essentially caustic.
I know I’ll find my way
through the pain one day
then I’ll be able to say
that I can stay
instead of running away
and do I ever pray
that later on you may
forgive my crazy play
and I will continue to pay
for the mistakes I’ve made
that will forever weigh
on my conscious, it’ll lay
like a cloud, dark grey.
God help me, some way.
been working on this for awhile, almost lost it at one point but was able to finally finish it up. I could honestly keep going, but everything must end at some point...Copyright Sarah-JG
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