I'm just trying to do what I love.
but I have to survive in the process. I've already worked 9 to 5 until I died.
My literal graveyard shift has been going on for almost two years.
all my options now will just be backpedaling. But I told myself that I would never go back.
To live a life of constant worries, with empty stomachs and vision blurry.
I put all my faith into these empty dreams and tried to live a childhood fantasy.
But I haven't gotten anywhere in nineteen years.
And most the time I wonder,
"Why haven't my kids from the future come back to visit me. or at least warn me about what wasn't meant to be..."
Because nobody ever told me I would lose the five people I called my best friends. Nobody ever told me that being a good guy and telling someone they're a ******* fake right to their face would bite me in the *** one day.
I'm still waiting for karma to rip off their limbs and beat them to death.
But it hasn't.
Somehow I don't think it ever will...
Because I realized that no matter how terrible someone is inside,
That won't effect their soon to be rich and famous life.
And no matter how many times I do the right thing, I'll still get another knife protruding from my body.
My real nickname should be Julius Caesar.
But the worst thing of all is that "Good" is just a point of view.
It's not tangible in the slightest...
And maybe that point of view has blinded me from what's really going on.
So maybe I'm Brutus...
Maybe the reason I let the bubbling magma that is my anger burst in the faces of others is because I know I will never pole vault over the bar of expectations my parents have set.
Filing claims of "I had a job at fourteen, since they WERE fourteen"
Well it's a new age, and depression hits in different ways.
And maybe the reason why I let my sadness grip my ankles and drag me below the earth's crust is because In the seventh grade I asked Mary if she wanted to be my girlfriend and all her friends laughed at me. She then proceeded to respond with "I hope you're not mad"
... It was valentines day.
So then a girl finally notices me, only I pass down the empty box labeled "Rejection" just as it was passed down to me.
I always try to find a different way of putting things.
To look artistic, or have some form of character
But that's not true.
Because I had to became a thief of Shane's style to even write this **** poem.
And my character is still being sculpted out clay in the supply room of the art class that you kissed me in.
I don't even exist yet...
So here are two fact's about life
Number 1. There will always be someone who is better than you at something
and Number 2. Nobody is original.