I get the message, clear and precise
Speaking to me, cold as ice
I hear it now, my own voice
I guess I have only one choice
I'm not proud to admit it
But I've gotta live with it
I've been lying to myself
It's time to show myself
I thought I was something that I'm not
But it's not
At all
What I thought I was
And while I'm at it
Confessing my spirit
Here's something else
I just found out
Poetry doesn't even have to rhyme
So I'm wasting my time
Trying to make rhymes
About my life
And whoever said this is a poetry book? My words are just reflection of self.
There's no rhyme
or reason.
Literally.
Seems like
my life
subliminally
So why am I trying to hold back the tears? I should just accept what I know is truth. I've spent all this time telling myself that I was something special. Not good or bad, just something special- I wanted to be different.
Driving myself insane
Thinking my life is a game
I'm really not so different. Whether I like it or not, I'm nothing out of the ordinary. Just scared and lost and trying to find
something
to call
home.
But what the hell is home? What the hell am I? I'm only as broken as I tell myself I am.
Why do I bring myself down? What's the point of hurting myself like this? Maybe I'm just crazy, a self-destructive masochist. Maybe I just like the pain because its the only thing I feel.
Maybe I just want to understand. To help, to heal. So I bear their burdens, just wanting to do some good.
But am I really helping anyone?
What am I doing with my life?
I've created this illusion that I've got it all figured out;
The black veil I call the truth, blocking myself from myself
protecting my heart from my mind
but keeping me ignorant.
I torment myself, knowingly and aware. The broken me is really just another mask to wear.
All I ask myself is:
Why?
Why do I hurt myself? A part of me wants to believe that my intentions are good; I just want to understand and help the ones who are beyond their breaking points. But maybe I'm just stupid and scared, confused and searching for
something
to call
home.
YOU ARE READING
Unspoken
PoesiaSome kids keep diaries. I don't; I have this book. Everything I write in here is a personal memoir of my life. This should give you a glimpse inside my soul from the second you start reading. This is one of the many manifestations of my life story.
