Immature

Does it make me immature
To always play the fool?
Does it make me somehow less
To play by your own rules?
Am I supposed to make it out
Like what is said is not a wall?
Am I supposed to never cry
Or feel anything at all?
No matter if I hear anger
In every other breath;
No matter if my father
Jokes of his own death;
No matter is supposed to be
Beyond my reckoning:
I’m supposed to somehow know this world
That I have never seen.
To know the foolishness of man —
Is that maturity?
If so, I’ve had my fill
And I beg you let me be.

Oaken

My life is a chain of promises broken
And of the ones that I kept, I gave no sign or token
So as I think of the tree and the silence unbroken
I’m expecting to hear, “Your heart must be oaken…”

Slamming Doors

It’s better than it was before:
Laughter drifts through open doors;
So why does my chest tighten,
And my heart so quickly frighten,
At every hint of sounds like slamming doors?

Is it my unpainted fears
On the wall, downstairs?
Or the memory of a child,
Imagination running wild,
Listening to the yelling coming from upstairs?

Is it a weakness that is beautiful?
Or a strength to shield my weary soul?
Or a laughter in my mind,
That says to treat in kind,
And insists that in the end, no one’s really saveable?

Or maybe it’s the path I choose
At the crossroads of lose-lose;
And maybe if I try enough
At the game of never giving up,
I’ll find that there’s a prize that even on that road, I cannot lose.

Apathy is a Survival Trait

I say that I am tired,
But I’m meaning something else;
I’m meaning that I’m tired
Of this life, of this house.

I’m tired of the moment
That I am living in;
I’m tired of the words
That never come when I beckon.

I’m tired of the people
Trying to tell me what I am,
When I already know,
And I’m just trying not to give a damn.

***

Apologies; this one’s darker than perhaps it ought be. I’ve been having issues with a member of my family lately; he doesn’t seem to realize that no one is more critical of me than me, and it feels like he’s made it his mission to remind me constantly that I’m useless, that I’m “mean,” that I don’t care enough, etc. To be fair, I’m not the only one he does this to, and I have some understanding of the reasons behind it. But I am also really, really sick of it. Because I actually care what he thinks. And nothing I ever do is good enough, so… What’s the point?

Of course, I’ve never really talked to him about it. The last time I tried expressing my frustrations to him, I called him an attention whore. That was months ago. He still brings it up. That’s a common problem with me. With most of my family, actually. It’s either 0 or 100. Nothing in between. So when someone asks me what’s wrong, I just tell them I’m tired.

It’s not entirely untrue.

Your Toll

You ask for a toll that I cannot pay;
You ask for a laugh that I must fake;
You ask for a face that cannot stay,
Replaced by a frown that just won’t go away.

You ask for a heart that will not break;
You ask for an act with no final refrain;
You ask for naught but rainbows and cake,
And I find it’s more than I can take.

You ask for a forecast with no rain;
You ask for me to be the same.
You ask for a life that’s not in vain;
But the answer to that, I fear, is just more pain.

Reliance

There is anger in your chidings;
Worry in your voice.
When life sends out its tidings,
What will be my choice?

Will I make a grand mistake
And then come crawling back to you?
Is it more than you can take
That I’m not one, but two?

We’re like Buffy and Giles,
Or like the Winchester brothers:
We share tears and smiles
Until it begins to smother;

Until the lines begin to blur,
And I rely too much on you.
Yet still I hope that you will be there
When I don’t know what to do.

Marriage

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To wilt away my life with you
Is not something I choose to do.
Too many times I’ve seen
Bitter, silent drifting;
Too many times I’ve watched
Two hearts that have themselves botched.
I don’t want that to be us:
So when you ask what’s all the fuss,
And why I will not marry you
Or say how much I love you,
I can only tell
That my soul I’ll never sell;
But you can have it for free
If you don’t ask for anything.


Incidentally, yesterday was my two-year WordPress anniversary. Sorry I’ve been scarce. My “little breaks” from trying to write around 1700 words each day, have a tendency to devolve into hours-long video game resource-gathering sessions. Which, I then have to make up for. Which usually involves my trying to write more than a thousand words while half asleep. Purely my own fault, of course. I’m too much an escapist, and the prospect of trying to write 50,000 words all in one month is daunting. Still, I’ve actually kept up thus far, which kind of surprised me. I thought I’d crash and burn within the first day or two. Still might. But hey, I did manage (the majority of) two years on WordPress, didn’t I?