They make them look so pretty
Brightly coloured like candy
Anyone who has taken antibiotics
Knows this is a baldfaced cheat
They do not taste like jellybeans
They do make a nifty rattle though
Like a lame ass maraca
If you are stuck for accompaniment
They tell lies
Like it’ll be quieter
Or you’ll be able to think
Or you’ll be able to smile
Quieter would be nice
I think too much so fuck that
I don’t see much to smile about. I’m trying find that silver lining
And it’s an exhausting task
I’m struggling and I’ve fallen silent
Because I can’t speak
Four words to describe my last effort
Colossal Waste Of Time
If I listened to them,
Life would be roses and peaceful
I’d be able to think
I’d have forever to enjoy it too
Because I’d be in the ground.
They do make a nifty rattle though.
I’m pretty sure that I’m fundamentally broken. It’s the only real reason I can even think of to explain why I’m so impossible to love. Why it’s so difficult to find the same respect in speaking to me as others receive. Maybe I expect too much, and that’s why. Or maybe I’m too thin now. Or too ugly. Or … maybe I just deserve all the misery. If Goddess exists, and I have no faith in that at all, if She hates me so much, I wish She’d end me already; save me the torture of doing yet another job alone.
I’ve never felt less beautiful, less useful, more worthless or more invisible than I do right now. I can’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror because I don’t want to vomit again. I have nothing left to give up other than my words, and those are next. Not because I want to. I have to. I have nothing left.
My dreams are dead and I think it’s because I’m not meant to have anything. People take until they have what they want, then leave. Everyone forgets that maybe I’m struggling, because I don’t exist until I’m wanted for something.
The insecurity is crippling. The knowledge that I let my dream die again because I’m not strong enough is agonising. That what someone I care about told me is fact and I was too blind to see it hurts. You were right – always with the truth bombs.
The truth in the eyes of those I should never have to ask support from that it matters to no one but me – that I can’t deal with now. I wish I had never exhumed my desire. I wish I’d never listened to those who told me I could. Because I can’t. I’m a failure.
How the hell am I supposed to teach my kids to teach for the stars chained to the rotting corpse of my own dreams? It’s not even an option, and I can’t fight. I don’t have the energy.
I fucking HURT!!
I fucking HATE to cry
and I’m sitting here weak sister with no balls or a backbone and powerless to do anything about it. I swore I’d never be helpless again. Idiot. I’m so fucking stupid to believe in anything. I don’t even want to talk to anyone anymore. What’s the point.
How it feels:
Who needs a spoon when the
Tremors stir the tea in my cup?
You could consider it a silver lining
Every nerve is on fire
It burns like napalm frostbite
Even through sweat slick palms
Pharmaceuticals be damned
I fucking hate taking them.
Stabbing myself in the eye
Would bring quicker relief
But that means effort
And I like my eye
So I’ll wait.
Slithering, sniggering, sinister rats
Slinking in shadowed doorways
Always whispering behind fans and ferns
Always so unconcerned
But the itching sound of soulless claws
Giggling along the edge of darkness
Drives me batshit crazy and
Still they assume that they are invisible