What Makes Us

My shoes will never be your size

I still feel pressured, and I still have the nerve to pressure others about me.

Growing tired of my issues, it is like growing tired of removing gray hair strands, they grown back again, in bigger numbers.

I was told that I should be emotionally mature towards people, but I was never taught how I should believe in being emotionally forgiving towards myself.

Maybe I do not deserve anything, and it is uncertain that I deserve everything. But the close ones do not deserve how I treat them, and I do not deserve how they treat me.

No one likes what I do, even when I succeed at it. Even writing about my shallow and deep waters, I just plan to say,

I am hurting and I am hurt itself.

Source of willingness, Am I? Fountain of  doldrums, Am I?

I will stop guessing for now.

No. I am lying, lying to me and to them.

The memories that I have haunt me.

These old morning sounds are set free,
in my head and in my ears.

Flashes of his people running, and the little girl falling off the roof long time ago.

The screams of the closest people in so many public places. Got used to the humiliation that I cannot feel its pain anymore.

The cries of that woman who got betrayed in the most disturbing way.

The voodoo ways of dealing in my half rotten tree. Instead of leaves, there grows cotton papers.

The ugly satanic woman who I have to deal with, and even her uglier child.

My own cries when I remember the many stabs of the same man I trusted since I took my first breath.

Is my own flesh and blood really the criminal here?

What are my thoughts trying to tell me?

But then, I shut the fuck up. That is how I respond to them, by just shutting the fuck up.

Because that is what the broken cowards do, just shut their mouths up, and get angrier at themselves by the second for shutting up.