Dear diary, can I tell you a story?
I tried last summer
Dear diary, can I add to that story?
I lied last summer.
Dear diary, can I finish that story?
I died last summer.
But to explain that further, let me tell you the whole story;
I lied last summer.
Your mouth spews out insults like a second nature,
polluting the room with your sickly sweetness and over made up frowns,
before we know it over-sized hoodies and baggy t-shirts,
line our wardrobes in a desperate attempt to make us invisible.
Teachers turn a blind eye and old friends start to forget us.
Before we know it, we’re keeping our hands down in class,
first of all because we don’t want to share our opinions,
but more importantly because no-one would even care.
In this 21st century hell,
we can only try and tread carefully around you,
because when we don’t, it’s worse.
When we don’t, we have to bear the sting as reality slaps us in the face leaving us feeling flustered and insane.
And before we know it,
we’ve forgotten what the heat of the sun feels like upon our bare skin,
because we hate the paranoia we feel,
just walking alone where you’re around.
And the rest of them, they just sit there and stare,
as though willing it away half-heartedly in their minds
could cause even a miniscule amount of difference,
while we,
the freaks,
the losers,
the broken records among a pristine collection,
we were all rotting away as you, like a rat, ate hungrily at our collective corpse.
Before we know it,
those bitter, barely customised whispers you send through the hallways
turn into a deafening ringing,
in our heads constantly
And so as the cool summer air blew through my hair,
red hot tear streaks fell like train tracks upon my pale, blotchy cheeks.
Time slipped through my fingers as weeping angels serenaded me,
eyes closed,
heart overdosed… on emotion,
a notion,
distortion
of devotion…
I fell in slow motion.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
Dear diary, can I tell you a story?
I tried last summer
Dear diary, can I add to that story?
I lied last summer.
Dear diary, can I finish that story?
I died last summer.
But to explain that further, let me tell you the whole story;
I lied last summer.
Your mouth spews out insults like a second nature,
polluting the room with your sickly sweetness and over made up frowns,
before we know it over-sized hoodies and baggy t-shirts,
line our wardrobes in a desperate attempt to make us invisible.
Teachers turn a blind eye and old friends start to forget us.
Before we know it, we’re keeping our hands down in class,
first of all because we don’t want to share our opinions,
but more importantly because no-one would even care.
In this 21st century hell,
we can only try and tread carefully around you,
because when we don’t, it’s worse.
When we don’t, we have to bear the sting as reality slaps us in the face leaving us feeling flustered and insane.
And before we know it,
we’ve forgotten what the heat of the sun feels like upon our bare skin,
because we hate the paranoia we feel,
just walking alone where you’re around.
And the rest of them, they just sit there and stare,
as though willing it away half-heartedly in their minds
could cause even a miniscule amount of difference,
while we,
the freaks,
the losers,
the broken records among a pristine collection,
we were all rotting away as you, like a rat, ate hungrily at our collective corpse.
Before we know it,
those bitter, barely customised whispers you send through the hallways
turn into a deafening ringing,
in our heads constantly
And so as the cool summer air blew through my hair,
red hot tear streaks fell like train tracks upon my pale, blotchy cheeks.
Time slipped through my fingers as weeping angels serenaded me,
eyes closed,
heart overdosed… on emotion,
a notion,
distortion
of devotion…
I fell in slow motion.
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