A world unknown beyond my own
Shall tease, and taunt, and terrify;
And all I’ve done, what truths I’ve drawn
Are there only to vilify.
Dissatisfaction plagues my life:
It slips in like a knife,
And to a grazed and broken heart,
Whispers all the things that drive it more apart.
There is no thought
Nothing I can hold
And I’m supposed to be something beautiful
I’m supposed to be something bold?
I am something angry
I am something losing self
And if that is all that’s left of me
Then leave me to myself.
I should be drowned in rivers
Streams should flow of tears
But currents barely quiver
And I’ve looked away for years.
I cannot tell you not to feel
Or change what you believe is real
But I am not strong enough
To deal with the both of us.
There is no translation
For the things inside my head
And no will ever know what’s missing
When I wind up dead
And all my books are empty
Because I never knew the words
And all I try is sickening
Because it’s never more than thirds
Of what might be enough
When we’re all resigned to drowning
‘Cause the ocean’s just too rough
It’s a fact of life
The only immortal thing is doubt
And if I can’t ever win
All I can do is shout
But what use is voices in a chorus
Of silent, desperate screams
And if they’re all that I can hear now
How can I not know that I can’t change things?
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.
I arrive there later on,
Long after you have come and gone.
You assume I wasn’t coming;
It’s simply that my clock is wrong.
I’m not intending to be shallow,
Continue reading “Intentions (explicit)”
But shallow’s what I am;
I wonder if I have a soul —
You tell me that I must;
For who would care to question
If they did not care first?
But the more I try to think of it,
The more it hurts my brain;
For what if all the things I feel
Amount to only phantom pain?