im built on fatigue,
its building up brick by brick
and im suddenly in the guinness world record for being the tallest skyscraper,
and everyone's congratulating me but what am i?
what am i made of that's worthy of being admired?
who chose the records?
have i submitted my own self,
or was it a move of an anonymous sadisticity?
will there be more, will i hold the greatest record of cramped walls and muscle aches, and cold sweats and dry skin, and bloodshot eyes and sunken veins, will i be loved by all the wrong things?
am i that good of a mask or is everyone really that blind?
was it me who made them blind, or was it them who put on my mask?
was my skin shredded into deeper layers of tainted walls and worn down wallpapers,
will i crumble because my bricks would fall apart if no one preserves me. and no one's preserving me. they're only throwing up balloons from afar and clapping so loudly and aimlessly like they don't know why they love me and are just chained to the repetitions originating from my closest friends.
bitter, yes, but it's always what the world will make me out to be.
im new but rusty, an antique that may be haunting,
im a record that everyone flips over because who wants to know this?
who cares about a skyscraper built on anguished concrete and dark windows and barred doors and fatigued bricks?
who would stand before gates that hold signs of 'closed'?
although perhaps they'd only wonder.
why, how.
who was my architect, who chose my materials, who shaped me into this form.
why they'd build something they won't benefit from.
it can sadistic, or boredom or testing new waters, but either ways,
i'll hold that record.
I always ask questions in my poems. I wonder why.
