You're allowed to get mad
You don't need permission to shout at someone when they ask you for unreasonable things
Like to keep your temper in check when they don't respect that you're old enough to not take their **** storm of ******* manipulation
You can get mad, go on
You have every rational logical explanation but it's stuck in your head
So why don't you just hit back? It isn't like they didn't hit you first
You have every reason to get mad
The guy just comes back without a word and doesn't know how you'll react so he then makes a statement of power by being an *******
His fear is your reason to get mad
Get mad at his fear with a sharp tongue and a voice of fire
He can't step on you

The broken man can not feel,
no, the broken man can not heal.
The broken man creates a child,
and leaves it defenseless in the wild.

The broken man does not care,
no, the broken man is never there.
The broken man is built to roam,
after he destroys your home.
He'll put your life upon a shelf,
yes, the broken man only loves himself.
The broken man has no voice,
ignoring common sense with every choice.

It's his world, it's his life,
you've been hurled, for his wife.
It's his plan, it's his goals,
the broken man leaves broken souls.

The broken man just lives for fun,
he believes he is the only one.
The broken man is always dazed,
and believes his family is not phased.
The broken man cares much for wealth,
but still he only loves himself.
The broken man is my father,
and I don't wish to be a broken daughter.

It's his world, it's his life,
he’s got pearl, I’ve got strife.
It's his clan, filled by holes,
the broken man leaves broken souls.

The broken man does not feel,
no, the broken man will always steal.
The broken man creates a child,
and the broken man has never smiled.
The broken man cares not for health,
but he'll always only love himself.
The broken man is my father,
because of the mother I miss; he forgot her.

It's his world, it's his life,
you've been hurled, for his wife.
It's his plan, it's his goals,
the broken man leaves broken souls.

I often wonder if there are ghosts
that watch me
as I reach out to the other side of the bed,
laugh,
and whisper things,
pretending you're still there

Sometimes I play a game in my head
where I hit the play button on my life
and you have no choice but to watch from wherever you are
as I surround myself with things
I know would make you miss me

Do you ever think that when you dream of someone,
they can feel it
and maybe they wake up remembering you somehow?

I doubt you could stand waking up
with my name in your mouth each morning
Not when you've earned the right to forget it

Love and hate are independent sentiments
but somehow with you they're interchangeable

I've read somewhere about the science behind our memories,
how they paint a pretty picture
of a person we can no longer have,
but underneath all the layers of thick paint are the realities;
the uncertainty,
the mean streaks,
the resentment,
all in ***** splashes of muddy brown and red

The problem is that
I've been scrubbing at your painting in my head
until my hands go numb
and I still only see all my favorite colors

it's not that i don't trust people,
it's just i keep all my hardships to myself.
if i were to tell you everything on my mind,
you'd race for nine one one.
if you asked me all the things i know you're begging to ask,
you'd see me on my knees at the alter,
confessing my sins as if i believed they existed in the first place.
it's not that i see you as a threat to my personal privacy,
but if i were to be honest there'd be tears in your eyes.
I'm sorry.
You always wondered if i truly meant it when i spoke it and i'm hear to tell you sorry is my honest truth
because if
i wasn't
i wouldn't bother
saying it
and if i was patronizing
you
i would just apologize,
but never sorry.





if you were to look at my pinterest page,
you'd admit me back into the physic ward.

The radio's not what it used to be
With its wealth based in virtuality
Calling out to the youthful dream
Which is never quite as it seems

The radio no longer plays what's mine
As my popular taste has faded in time
I stopped singing along to the tunes
They stopped making my afternoons

The radio is nothing but melodic static
I'm aware that sounds a little dramatic
But I can't relate to these digital trends
No more playlists, I want show host friends

The radio's batteries died long ago
I'll replace them one day I suppose
When the songs I like will play
As part of a classic aural wave

You're behind me, aren't you?
Behind my weak form, behind this place, behind the years.

Yet you strangle me!

...

How do you do that?

How can all of you...

...

There's so many of you, is the thing.
There's you, and you, and you; amongst so many others.
It's... haha, it's really something.

You know,
whenever my friend's arm brushes against mine, I pull back in disgust.  An internal "Christ don't touch me" screeches and stops as suddenly as it forms.

I bear my fangs and my wrists tense, ready to claw at eyes who have no business watching me, before I catch myself
and step away.

And when said friend's tactlessness pulls them away from their intuition and keeps them preoccupied with their own feelings, I hear all of your voices at once.
"My needs first. My needs first."

And I wonder-
would the fangs have grown anyways
would the claws have grown anyways
would I had been this anyways
if none of you would have given me a reason to.

...

No, no.
Surely not.

...

Of course not.









*Of course not.