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.
My life is based in lies:
Hide me from the prying eyes,
The judgements we’re supposed to make.
Everything I’ve ever heard
Tells me how my actions must be seen,
And who am I to say it’s wrong?
Who am I to say I’m sane?
Who am I to say I care, when I’m gone;
That I’m centered, when I’m drawn;
That every word I’ve ever spoken
Isn’t some evil, manipulative song?
Who am I to say that I deserve
While others have the right to say “what nerve!”
And like the wretch I’ve always been
I haven’t got the nerve to argue very long.
Best that I just carry on,
Trying to try on nothing different;
Because it seems the greatest gift that I can give,
To leave behind the smallest footprint.
Some call it a lack of self-esteem;
Some people call it modesty.
Some will call it cruelty;
While others call it honesty.
Some will take in broken things
And some will make anew;
But no matter what roads you take,
All sides can be true.
I feel false:
However hard I try,
The Truth from another angle
Becomes just another lie.
My life’s a composition
Of mundane mysteries and masks
Yet all you have to do
To know what’s underneath, is ask.
I can sit around for hours
Thinking, so I claim
But I can’t come to new conclusions
No matter how I wrack my brain
I can stare at all the flowers
And at their beauty exclaim
I could write odes in profusion
But how are things not still the same?
My answer’s not to spare you
Even if I would
I’ve danced among half truths with you
And lying is no good
So my answer’s not to spare you
It’s just the simple truth
This has nothing to do with you —
Such is the way of youth.
Frantically, she tore up the floorboards. “It has to be here!” she half-screeched, as she darted to and fro, searching different places. In the end, she collapsed, crumpling into a heap in the middle of what was left of the floor. Her bleeding fingers pulsed with pain, a reminder, and her glazed eyes wandered to one of the places where she’d torn up the wood. There should have been something underneath of it. A secret passage, a beating heart, a hidden stash with all the answers in it. Dirt, even. She would’ve taken dirt. But instead there was nothing. Just the void, that endless dark. “There should have been SOMETHING,” she whispered, eyes tearing up. “But there wasn’t,” her mind hissed back. Instead of crying, she began to laugh; a mad laugh. The darkness didn’t end at the floorboards.
I’m not pretty when I cry:
No slow and somber tears;
My nose is never dry.
Just a pouring out of all my fears,
Or so I stutteringly try;
And it turns out, for all my preening
I’m just a human being
And it’s not worth the effort I make to try to lie.
Today I’m sick of villains
Nor do heroes have a place
So often have I been
Nothing but a shifting face
But lately have I seen
Not everything escapes
A world where there’s just people,
Whatever their mistakes.