My heart tells me I'm alive, but am I really living?
In a world full of takers, what am I actually giving?
A half-mast, half-assed, half-empty cup of ****.
Masked in awkward silence and sharp pointed wit.

I'll blame it on the others, say they aren't the same.
When I haven't given reason to remember my name.
Because it's easier to mask the fact that I'm a wreck.
By simply hiding on the wall like a speck.

Doubt and remorse will eventually take it's course.
I'm seeking inspiration, but am blind to it's source.
Hindrance and distraction caused by my reaction,
To the vices that provide me with cheap satisfaction.

Maybe I should simply just give it all away.
Leave town, just drive, without a word to say.
But that would be easy, with admitting defeat.
Another cycle of life that's stuck on repeat.

Love me so much that it hurts?

Why not love me the amount that feels good inside?

but when he lost heart,
a girl
uncensured desperation,
insane he chose
******:
thirty years

if i wrote you poetry
it would be art
but i would not explain it
or reveal its meaning
i would leave it open
to interpretation
i would let it have as many meanings
as there could impossibly be
but it's human nature to
want to understand everything if there is
no understanding
and no meaning is given
YOU WOULD JUST GET ANGRY
and not embrace its mystery

i'm becoming my mother
not the young, beautiful
confident woman she was
at 22
i'm becoming my mother
not the hopeful, brave
fearless woman i see grinning mischievously
in the faded, yellow picture
not her that was
but her that is
her
now
the only her i've seen
the one afraid to change
the one who won't take chances
the one who doesn't want to be seen
i'm becoming my mother
the lonely, bitter
sad old lady
the tired, faithless crone.
i'm becoming my mother
and i'm only 23.