sometimes i'm afraid people don't like me.
it's my whole problem actually,
that i so desperately want to be liked by people.
i take myself and i scream at it,
i throw plates and vases at myself,
i tell myself to go hide under the bed and stay there,
and all im left with is the rest of me.
i try to pick those bits up,
sew them together
recycle and refurbish, blow the dust off a little,
and i create something that is totally inhuman.
a creature that moves on inorganic beats,
that stumbles and falls right down the
slippery slope of uncanny valley,
that talks too much,
smiles too much,
apologizes too much.
it's not fake,
it's me,
just, not any of the parts i like.
it's more palatable, i guess,
but it never goes any deeper.
that's really all i try to be.
palatable.
a real people pleaser.
i take all the jagged edges of my person,
and iron them out until it's more
appealing than the next
hottest number one billboard single,
but the critics hark it all the same,
because generic niceties only
really get you so far.
so you either have to push a little,
give the universe a little shove,
remind it you still exist,
or let yourself get folded up
as you cave and cave
and cave again,
never asserting,
always acceding,
because of that
deep-seeded hatred you
harbor, towards the one person
you could never forgive for as long
as tried, towards your oldest friend:
yourself,
the pathetic ******* that looks back at you from every mirror, from every picture, every poem.
so you cant be them,
because no matter how much you try to make amends, befriend
yourself
you always end up
disappointed.
so you burn the bridges
you tried to build
and create a monster,
an amalgamation of every
polite smile and fake laugh
you've seen, gathered,
like youre playing
customer service
your entire life,
and you scare off everyone anyways,
because there's not a script,
there's no rehearsal,
nobody's running their lines,
they're living their lives,
and you parrot back all the
lessons you've learned from the
acting school of social osmosis
and it comes out wrong and ill-timed,
and while they don't hate you
you just don't vibe,
and you repeat this process
for the rest of your life.
and why do you do this?
no really,
why do you do this?
i wish i could be softer,
not ironed around the edges,
all cauterized and raw,
but more blurry,
a gentler sort of person,
fuzzy and less uptight.
it's a me i think i could be,
if i just were able to take a walk with
me,
let him explain himself,
learn to value him
more than i value
people's perceptions of who i am.
he'd tell me to relax, stop being such a
control freak.
but at this point i would uncomfortable
and i'd say
well, you're such a hypocrite
oh look at mister high and mighty,
calling me a freak
listen, i may be miserable
but at least i'm not you.
my pride gets in the way,
(everyone always says i'm stubborn)
and i cant accept
that one pill i won't swallow:
"be less afraid."
Aug 10, 2020
Aug 10, 2020 at 4:22 AM UTC
sometimes i'm afraid people don't like me.
it's my whole problem actually,
that i so desperately want to be liked by people.
i take myself and i scream at it,
i throw plates and vases at myself,
i tell myself to go hide under the bed and stay there,
and all im left with is the rest of me.
i try to pick those bits up,
sew them together
recycle and refurbish, blow the dust off a little,
and i create something that is totally inhuman.
a creature that moves on inorganic beats,
that stumbles and falls right down the
slippery slope of uncanny valley,
that talks too much,
smiles too much,
apologizes too much.
it's not fake,
it's me,
just, not any of the parts i like.
it's more palatable, i guess,
but it never goes any deeper.
that's really all i try to be.
palatable.
a real people pleaser.
i take all the jagged edges of my person,
and iron them out until it's more
appealing than the next
hottest number one billboard single,
but the critics hark it all the same,
because generic niceties only
really get you so far.
so you either have to push a little,
give the universe a little shove,
remind it you still exist,
or let yourself get folded up
as you cave and cave
and cave again,
never asserting,
always acceding,
because of that
deep-seeded hatred you
harbor, towards the one person
you could never forgive for as long
as tried, towards your oldest friend:
yourself,
the pathetic ******* that looks back at you from every mirror, from every picture, every poem.
so you cant be them,
because no matter how much you try to make amends, befriend
yourself
you always end up
disappointed.
so you burn the bridges
you tried to build
and create a monster,
an amalgamation of every
polite smile and fake laugh
you've seen, gathered,
like youre playing
customer service
your entire life,
and you scare off everyone anyways,
because there's not a script,
there's no rehearsal,
nobody's running their lines,
they're living their lives,
and you parrot back all the
lessons you've learned from the
acting school of social osmosis
and it comes out wrong and ill-timed,
and while they don't hate you
you just don't vibe,
and you repeat this process
for the rest of your life.
and why do you do this?
no really,
why do you do this?
i wish i could be softer,
not ironed around the edges,
all cauterized and raw,
but more blurry,
a gentler sort of person,
fuzzy and less uptight.
it's a me i think i could be,
if i just were able to take a walk with
me,
let him explain himself,
learn to value him
more than i value
people's perceptions of who i am.
he'd tell me to relax, stop being such a
control freak.
but at this point i would uncomfortable
and i'd say
well, you're such a hypocrite
oh look at mister high and mighty,
calling me a freak
listen, i may be miserable
but at least i'm not you.
my pride gets in the way,
(everyone always says i'm stubborn)
and i cant accept
that one pill i won't swallow:
"be less afraid."