They tell me, they promise me, I'm not alone But I can only go by what I've always been shown Unwanted, undesirable, freek show, just a small sample of all I've known I wish my inner abuser would adapt another tone I don't own my own thoughts, any positive feeling is only on loan
People act like I hone in on this curse to be worthless Like I thirst to be anxious Like I have to coerce this anger and bitterness Like I enjoy being immersed in the hopeless Like my first thought is the worst on purpose Like I enjoy all my deep rooted issues constantly rising to the surface
Then comes the question that brings me back to reality "What are you doing to get control of this? Not enough certainly" Honestly that's another cog in the circle mosh pit of misery, part of the continuity I'd give anything for it to be as easy as everyone claims it should be
Because what most people see from me is rehearsed My final diagnosis can not be reversed The totality of my issues couldn't possibly be unearthed But that doesn't change the horrible landscape I've traversed I wouldn't be able to tell you what I'm worth, all I know is... ...I am this, for what it's worth
When the **** hits the fan, the things I want to hear and the things I need to hear are rarely the same thing.
It’s usually the hard truth that I remember most in the wee hours, when anxiety swirls around my head
When the time finally comes to exit the whirlpool the words that my heart knows are true, are the words that fuel the change.
Like the song I was singing with soul, for years before I lived it, before I had the experience for it to really make sense. Like my mother’s wisdom that I didn’t want to hear, but it rang in my ears after the outcome of my foolishness is fulfilled. Will I always learn the hard way?
i have asked but it remains unclear if it was planted purposefully by somebody for some reason unknown to the rest or merely discarded within a pile of offcuts and waste following a frenzy of gardening chores regardless of whether it was intended or not it has taken root it has bloomed bright and proud brilliant cherry red against dandelion yellow and uncut-grass green one solitary red tulip amongst the weeds
Around every poorly lit street the ones with cracks in the road and coin beggars in the shadows you will find my unwanted poster a picture with clarity through time from child to adolescent the poster remains scattered throughout this ****** city
I feel like I am a rodent for you, kind of a pest. Not welcome but stuck, Not my home, but make do with what I want. You hate the sight of me don't want to fight me. You feel I am drinking the life out of you. But soon you plan to get rid of me, permanently plotting to execute, the plan to precision leave me out in the cold not to be your problem anymore.
Why do we distort beauty? Beauty can be power, but it can also be a burden I never understood, but now I do
When we are not bestowed with it, We cage it by any and all means possible We mock those who lack it and hate those who have it
Green monsters rise in us We blur the pure with cold blacks and angry reds We blame them while we try to be them I suppose jealousy is a fickle thing
In the stories of old, they say one is blessed with beauty To gain the admirable attention of others, How it must feel to be dotted on
But then comes the curse Of having too much attention Of getting the wrong attention Of being objectified and not respected Of being catcalled in the streets and attempting to ignore crass comments and rude remarks.
Like the attention Don't like the attention To be called beautiful is such a nice thing Until it's not.