i write lies to make myself feel better
false words that make me hope i know what i'm doing
because i'm lost and don't know where i'm going.

a constant battle of wanting to starve and to gorge myself,
seeking a happy in between is difficult
and most of the times unpleasant.

differences are created and personalities split,
never knowing who i am or how i actually feel
i could try to read words of old but it doesn't help.

too often i change, and i obsess over all the figs
sylvia plath wrote about and it scares the **** out of me,
what if i choose the wrong fig, the wrong path?

closing my eyes i know all of them are dying,
my parents know of this feeling quite well,
who else did i inherit it from?