There are things that I’m supposed to feel
But I’m just playing out the part
And I’m worried what that hints of me
And what lies within my shallow heart.
There is a chill, an arrogance,
An over-thought-out line to use:
And I’m trying to believe it,
But I can’t quite accept the excuse.
Because I believe there should be something;
Otherwise would be too sad.
So here I am, with myself warring
For emotions that I never had.
I thought I knew my weaknesses…
Then, I met you.
You were interested, and charming;
And what am I but a lonely soul,
Full of longing, and so painfully naive?
I must have looked such easy prey,
Such a simple thing to use;
And I confess, I made it easier,
Leaving little clues.
But the funniest thing of all
Is that I broke up with you;
And not because you were using me…
But because I was using you.
I swear I’m trying not to cry,
But it comes every time I think of you;
I keep asking myself why:
It turns out I’m a traitor, but a loyal one too.
I wonder if you think of me,
Or if you’ve traded your stray for a much better breed;
One that stays where you can see
And isn’t prone to making of a friendship lost, a need.
I don’t know if you feel like I do;
If you’re just waiting for an overture to come.
But I’ve given what little I know how to,
And still it seems our friendship’s done.
I believe in happy endings;
But I think this story might not end that way.
Sometimes there’s an inevitable end to things
That’s neither good nor bad, but just a sad cessation of yesterday.
Sorry again for my scarcity; I fear that may very well continue. I’m eager not to slip as deep into my wallowing as before, but when I try sitting down to write with positivity in mind, I immediately go blank. The closest I can often get to positivity, it seems, is a lack of negativity. Which frequently translates to silence.
In this case, I still may not have made it into the Sunshine & Rainbows department, but honest sadness is different from giving in to frustration, and this was very much on my mind.
Sorry yet again for posts unread, and comments neglected; my mind has been elsewhere. Don’t let that make you think I do not notice, or do not care; I notice your kindness, and care for your thoughts. My own thoughts, however, are not always suited to the challenge of being revealed, and thus I leave things for another day…
“Be wary of devils, little angel;
Watch out for the thorns.
There are always those who will try and show you hell;
Manipulators who will use you for their own needs and nothing more.
Don’t let them take your innocence;
Don’t let them bend your principles.
Be careful of the hypocrites
Who care not for your precious soul!”
But I am not an angel;
I am, for sure, a rose.
There’s a place Down There I know quite well…
And the best manipulation is the one where no one knows.
I’m afraid of what I am,
Of what I just might be:
Am I a monster in the making?
Or is there nothing here to see?
Is it the masks that I wear
That will define me in the end?
Or will I someday find
That I never needed to pretend?
I don’t know how to say it all the time.
Sometimes I’m yours — but sometimes I’m mine;
And I wish that that could just be fine…
But I’m afraid you’ll see that it’s a crime.
Once, I was your echo:
Always different — yet still near.
But years have changed the question’s tones,
And the answer is less clear.
These days, we wander, through dark and bones,
Accompanied by fear;
These days, it is my voice that echoes,
And I don’t like what I hear.
I don’t know why I’m angry;
Why I just cannot accept.
Love, to me, sometimes seems
Like a foreign concept.
Have I ever even felt it?
If I did, how would I know?
There are some we’re just supposed to love,
But we don’t always feel it’s so.
Instead, we just feel empty;
Instead, we feel alone.
And though it may be that we share the blame,
We begin to cast our stones.
Not my best week. Sorry for being scarce. I’ve been distracted by several things, one of which you can probably extrapolate from my most recent poems. Add to that recent and upcoming events (like Thanksgiving, with all its accompanying chaos), and my trying to keep up with writing approximately 1700 words a day this month, and… I’m kind of beat.
Still… Just one more week to go, and the month is over. Back to status quo. Theoretically.
My mask is a shifting face,
Grafted to my skin;
And I can’t tell where it ends,
Or whether I begin.
You saw me angry.
Before, only smiles and laughter;
And now, finally,
You’re consumed by my fire.
But you don’t see
What comes later,
When it’s just me
And I’m feeling empty:
For you saw my burning eyes, sir;
And now my eyes spill all my water.