Brooklyn

Brooklyn Jun 27

How do we know that blue is blue?
Or that these words rhyme or are even true?
Why do we believe what we’re told.
We question things, but never try to change them and do the untold.
Who decided what’s pretty and why did we listen.
This world is wicked and cruel,
and I don’t understand what were supposed to do.
What’s the point of life and who got to decide.
I want to write my own story, but don’t know how to even find mine.
I question everything like; what if blues orange.
What would we do, we can’t change it now.
And would we even want to
Words are a figment of our creation only held back by our minds.
We create what we are, and we live on our own line.
Blues blue, because we said so and no one else was there to correct us.
So till someone changes up the rules, I guess that’s all we can do.
Just believe in what we think is true.
So for now blue will stay blue.

Brooklyn Jun 26

Dreams

If dreams were real I’d fly away.
I’d live in a place where monsters stayed at bay.
Our lives only controlled by our will and words.
There’d be no ruler we’d live like a herd.
We stay together, and leave no one behind.

No fights, no war.
No hatred, no discrimination.
No bullying, no torture.
Just us and our freedom.

So if dreams were real I’d sure not be here,
because our world is filled with monsters that are held dear.
We have no control, and instead live in fear.
Were controlled and taken, we care for no one but ourselves

Lurking in every corner of our would is satan.
Ready to spring at all times is temptation.
We need to be ready to fly away to our imaginations,
so this place can’t keep a hold on us, or our creations.

So go, and go now.
Try to find anywhere, but this world with no dreams.
So, good luck to you, and good luck to me.

Brooklyn Jun 26

Perfect

There's nothing wrong with me.
My parents are together and get along,
I have friends I'm not broken off.
I'm not poor or oppressed,
i'm the perfect picture, a boor.

My life is so perfect so why am I so wrong.
I'm not skinny and pretty and I Should be, but I'm not.
My life is still a ****** mess,
kinda like me every night while crying on the floor.

My life's perfect nothings wrong.
My friends have problems, not me
I'll never mention crying or wanting to dye.
I'll never mention how I thank God whenever I speak.
All because i'm perfect, so there's no reason for me to want to be gone.
So why is that still all I want,
Just to wither like a dead man in a storm.

They think i’ll judge their mental health,
but at least they have a reason.
They never tell me, but I still find out somehow.
Do they really like me or am I just a filler always there for them.
I'm a side character.
A background song.
Never 1st or 2nd just a participant in the ploor,
I hate my life and I don't know why,
oh god please let me dye.

Brooklyn Jun 25

What I like

I like to read
I like the rain
I don’t like myself, but that’s ok.
I like bed rotting with no thoughts,
I like dark nights, am I insane.
You say I’m depressed, but I say I’m just stressed.
Am I like a pest to you,
constantly nagging your life to?
I know you don’t like me,
at least not like I like knives.
I overthink and I overreact,
I scream to myself and wonder if you notice my act.
But it’s all ok because I like other things too.
I like to read
I like the rain
I like myself, and I’m ok.
I like my thoughts
I like bright days,
I promise I’m not insane.

Brooklyn Jun 24

Pretend

I pretend to hate everything,
so they don't see it's me I hate.
I pretend to not care,
to then go cry every night.
I say i'm ok,
but the scars won't ever fade.
I promise i'm not broken parts,
Until the lights dim after day.

Night is when I'm stripped bare.
The mask gone to show how much I really care.
I stand there staring at a flawed case,
all I see is the lines I want to cut all over my face.
I say no words, but my actions speak like an insane try.

Now theres blood on my thigh,
and tear stains that won't ever dry.
My room is dark, but still brighter than my mind.
I cry now, but will smile in minutes time,
all this so I can say im fine.

Maybe I hate you.
Maybe I hate me.
Either way I must clean the blood,
dry the spilt flood.
Then put on a smile, all so I can keep up
my pretend life.

— The End —