You know how that quote goes, everyone does.
"If I was a drizzle, she was a hurricane"
I've got news for you: we're all just our own kinds of rainstorms
Coincidentally running into each other at different times
while we're just trying to drench whatever we can.
People used to tell me they looked up to me
and the same people haven't spoken to me in months
because what they saw was a figurehead instead of
a friend who is on their level,
and they like people who have flaws (not that I don't),
but tell us to strive to be perfect.
There's all these impossible expectations
of moral perfection- if you were the one who did it, it's
completely understandable given the circumstances,
but as soon as I'm late for school,
I'm lazy, a dropout, a slacker, partied too hard the night before.
You can lie your ***** off to me but you know
when someone did something wrong it was completely, morally unacceptable, but you, you're justified.
You can't get inside their head and understand them
because who we are, as humans, is not enough to forgive perfectly-
And I've worked so hard to learn how to love
flawlessly, but the more I love, the more I
bleed, with every breath you don't appreciate
and every love poem you don't read
And they keep beating me and beating me down
expecting this priceless gold mountain of positivity
and crushing me. It's like they're looking for flaws
in the statue I'm hiding within, and they seek to
destroy it because even tarnished gold is too bright
in their losing eyes. Maybe I'm the flaw in the statue,
my pink flesh and pale blood can't stand
these attacks and violent words, creating
holes in my heart where before there were none. They seek,
with every moment, for some trait that's imperfect,
and I'm only human, I can't maintain perfect posture all my life,
I'm on my knees,
because that's what they told me to do,
in the midst of standing up for what I believe in I forgot
how to breathe,
I'm begging because I don't think I can do this anymore.
The blood I live is torn out of me because I've given it out of lonely passion, I've had my suffering and death,
where's my resurrection?
I'm driving my head into the ground trying to
whip up the storm that will make me unique, beautiful, and valuable,
tear through the home where the heart is and skid across the highway of souls,
gather little tornadoes around me,
while they're destroying me from the inside out;
What I need isn't perfection, it's someone to love me perfectly
and I'm caught in a tortured cycle because no one can love like that-
so I'm kneeling for these things that are greater than me, and
watching in vain for an equal partner, since
no one can come too close to this lighting
and 200mph wind is fine to observe from a distance,
but nearby it's too much to take-
It's lonely being a hurricane, too, because
none of the lovely drizzles think they're worth your time.