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#paychecks
they are polluted by my delusion they were born to ruin my tears are acidic and my burden is heavy my fears are basic and I feel incomplete already it's a lot to wrap my head around, especially when my feet are not on the ground I'd rather ride the clouds or catch a wave who determined that life had to be so grey, day in and day out paychecks in and I already spent it, this hole I cannot get out my teardrops are acid and my god I cannot hold them in any longer my emotions are stronger the longer they harbor.
0
Mar 17, 2022
Mar 17, 2022 at 12:44 PM UTC
munybee
acid teardrops
they are polluted by my delusion they were born to ruin my tears are acidic and my burden is heavy my fears are basic and I feel incomplete already it's a lot to wrap my head around, especially when my feet are not on the ground I'd rather ride the clouds or catch a wave who determined that life had to be so grey, day in and day out paychecks in and I already spent it, this hole I cannot get out my teardrops are acid and my god I cannot hold them in any longer my emotions are stronger the longer they harbor.
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(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.) There aren’t many things that I’m good at. I have bad grades. I’m aware of this, but they still insist on shouting as if three letter F’s determine my worth as well as my ability. I’m not athletic, never been remotely decent at sports, picked last for soccer, football, basketball, and everything else, tried to do parkour once- however, that hope quickly dissolved when I discovered that it was still nerve-wracking for me to climb a fence. (One of the many gifts that comes with a severe lack of coordination.) I’m not a quiet person. I don’t know how to hold my tongue most of the time. So when my father’s paycheck is cut shorter and shorter, when he makes little enough as it is, my stay-at-home mother fighting her demons of the severe depression and anxiety that she passed down to me as well as her (auditory) hallucinations, her BPD, her physical disabilities, not making a paycheck at all, and my school supplies consist of 50-cent notebooks that fall apart, and 75-cent pens, I get a little… “upset”. I’ve played guitar for three years. Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at, playing strings of notes and minor chords that come together to form beautiful harmonies- but more often than not, every note is sour… Another thing I’m not good at. But I am a writer. People don’t pay attention to teenagers, they say We’re so full of ourselves, We think we’re so important, they say We need to communicate, but when we try all they hear is whining, and complaining. Teenagers telling their friends in passing conversation that they’re suicidal, that they hurt themselves, just to see who will notice- who will listen- and of course, no one does. Nobody notices that teenagers are the voice of our generation, and our generation, as such, is royally ****** because nobody pays attention. There aren’t many things that I’m good at. But I am a writer. And I have a voice, a pen… And paper torn from a 50-cent notebook.
0
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
samthechangeling
I Am A Writer
(October 17th, 2013, I think is when I wrote this.) There aren’t many things that I’m good at. I have bad grades. I’m aware of this, but they still insist on shouting as if three letter F’s determine my worth as well as my ability. I’m not athletic, never been remotely decent at sports, picked last for soccer, football, basketball, and everything else, tried to do parkour once- however, that hope quickly dissolved when I discovered that it was still nerve-wracking for me to climb a fence. (One of the many gifts that comes with a severe lack of coordination.) I’m not a quiet person. I don’t know how to hold my tongue most of the time. So when my father’s paycheck is cut shorter and shorter, when he makes little enough as it is, my stay-at-home mother fighting her demons of the severe depression and anxiety that she passed down to me as well as her (auditory) hallucinations, her BPD, her physical disabilities, not making a paycheck at all, and my school supplies consist of 50-cent notebooks that fall apart, and 75-cent pens, I get a little… “upset”. I’ve played guitar for three years. Sometimes, it’s what I’m best at, playing strings of notes and minor chords that come together to form beautiful harmonies- but more often than not, every note is sour… Another thing I’m not good at. But I am a writer. People don’t pay attention to teenagers, they say We’re so full of ourselves, We think we’re so important, they say We need to communicate, but when we try all they hear is whining, and complaining. Teenagers telling their friends in passing conversation that they’re suicidal, that they hurt themselves, just to see who will notice- who will listen- and of course, no one does. Nobody notices that teenagers are the voice of our generation, and our generation, as such, is royally ****** because nobody pays attention. There aren’t many things that I’m good at. But I am a writer. And I have a voice, a pen… And paper torn from a 50-cent notebook.
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