Just like burnt toast on a Saturday morning,
I am disgusted with myself.
There is no eating,
No thinking,
No breathing,
Without wanting the one thing I can't have.
I no longer want to write--
You can see right through my words,
The passion,
The spirit,
Makes those cowards shy away.
I am the coward.
Do I kick too hard when they can't move,
Or am I being beaten when I'm down?
This see-saw
Takes away my part
Before I can play the role.
You ask me--
"Why do you hate yourself?"
I can never be everything I hoped to be.