and I wish I could make everybody understand my head
But even I don't understand
And every time I open my tired mouth to talk with my tired words,
Nothing comes out
I don't know where to begin
Maybe im an act
Maybe I'm in a 3rd grade musical
One that is very poorly thought out and akwardly started with sticky little kids singing off key and dancing in the wrong places on the wrong notes with the wrong moves
And maybe that's how I feel
Like a sticky little kid not knowing where to go or where to be
Not knowing when to do something or where
Talking at the wrong times, out of place, off tune
Moving at the wrong times in the wrong places in the wrong ways
To the person who told me I'm an act,
A third grade musical,
Congratulations.
I have turned your hate,
into a metaphor
And one day if you read this,
You awful example of a human,
Maybe you'll see you're very mean to say that to me.
Maybe you wont
In fact, I know you wont
But whatever
It's on paper now
And that's all I need
All I need is to know that I tried to get to you
To make you see
Whatever
I know you never will
You'll never change
YOU ARE READING
storms and blood
Poetrythe death of which is unknown -figured out between the lines of within these pages
