May 2020
You all liked my friend
more than me.
How do I put ugly into words?
It is not flowers, for flowers are beautiful!
It is not the reflections of memories,
across the open pond;
along the orange skies,
the fine lines where thought begins
and insanity reigns.
This mentality is a dictatorship; where
the groves of sand sharply contrast the
dense green brush of the forest around
the beach.
No, it is not.
How do I put ugly into words?
Is ugly a condition temporary, or is it
self created- molded and shaped by the silent
ones, the loners and freaks?
Life would be so much easier born pretty, with a
perfect hairline; what beautiful conversations.
If I was pretty I would never be called bud, or kid.
Although I know those are only things said to wear
me down- like the rocks beneath a stream, until I
am too exhausted to fight it, until I succumb to it.
Like the worn mattresses, the cavalcade of them carried down
the street by the flooding water; I'll be worn like this until I die.
It's never me, I'm never chosen to go on those fun looking adventures- where the water is so blue it hurts your eyes.
I'll never know what the prettiest of them do, or did to get where they are. But I assume because they are pretty it is what carries them far.
I have a new scar, not unlike the one along my back that stings and hurts so badly.
These aren't physical scars, just places I remember being harmed from. Like my small frame, my weak arms, or my hair.
Or my inability to make my words stick,
or my steadily grinding bones, that will
one day fade to **** a few molecules on their way down to Earth.
Maturity loves those who preach it.
Maturity is just knowing when to give up.
Maturity is just knowing when to quit.
And on that note, goodnight. I loved the world until I was old enough to understand that the world- it hated me.
Or am I just a *******? That's what I fear the most.
I've watched myself lash out at my friends, my family, my girlfriends. Even people I meet by chance along the internet I seem to eventually shove away, as if I can't help myself. As if I was destined to be feared, and for people to run away from.
more than me.
How do I put ugly into words?
It is not flowers, for flowers are beautiful!
It is not the reflections of memories,
across the open pond;
along the orange skies,
the fine lines where thought begins
and insanity reigns.
This mentality is a dictatorship; where
the groves of sand sharply contrast the
dense green brush of the forest around
the beach.
No, it is not.
How do I put ugly into words?
Is ugly a condition temporary, or is it
self created- molded and shaped by the silent
ones, the loners and freaks?
Life would be so much easier born pretty, with a
perfect hairline; what beautiful conversations.
If I was pretty I would never be called bud, or kid.
Although I know those are only things said to wear
me down- like the rocks beneath a stream, until I
am too exhausted to fight it, until I succumb to it.
Like the worn mattresses, the cavalcade of them carried down
the street by the flooding water; I'll be worn like this until I die.
It's never me, I'm never chosen to go on those fun looking adventures- where the water is so blue it hurts your eyes.
I'll never know what the prettiest of them do, or did to get where they are. But I assume because they are pretty it is what carries them far.
I have a new scar, not unlike the one along my back that stings and hurts so badly.
These aren't physical scars, just places I remember being harmed from. Like my small frame, my weak arms, or my hair.
Or my inability to make my words stick,
or my steadily grinding bones, that will
one day fade to **** a few molecules on their way down to Earth.
Maturity loves those who preach it.
Maturity is just knowing when to give up.
Maturity is just knowing when to quit.
And on that note, goodnight. I loved the world until I was old enough to understand that the world- it hated me.
Or am I just a *******? That's what I fear the most.
I've watched myself lash out at my friends, my family, my girlfriends. Even people I meet by chance along the internet I seem to eventually shove away, as if I can't help myself. As if I was destined to be feared, and for people to run away from.
