I'm not as good as they say I am.
Just a mop top **** with no direction.
I'm not as selfless as I want to be,
consistently giving in and giving up.
Stand your ground, show them you're strong.
Then go and disappoint yourself.
Help up like a rat, where you always belonged,
because there's no group central enough,
no friend generous enough,
no mother caring enough or boy even willing to try.
My isolation is a defense from the drama,
from the empty conversations and recurring embarrassments.
Like a clock, my hands have been broken,
worn from unfinished paintings,
and poems I don't have the courage to end.
I'm not as creative as they say that I am,
unable to fulfill requests as they come,
and I run from opportunity like it'll **** me.
A pretty face with a pretty sweet talk,
but I'll fool you like you've never been fooled before.
I'll show you things you have never seen,
like unjustified morals and an unwillingness to fight.
[ I'll show you a home for the most passionate desires,
with all it's doors locked so they can never escape. ]
And I'll stick around
for the hopeless dream that someday I may find somebody who cares half as much as I do.
I'm weak, I am afraid of pain,
Afraid of acting too much like myself.