Feelings On Paper

Facade

I'm tired of pretending—
forcing a smile on my face,
eyes in delight,
voice intact.

While I try to write,
work and walk,
i wield no will to fight.

My head pounds in insecurities,
the regular guest of overthinking,
constant self hatred,
and often a loss of memory—

I forget that life is good,
people love and care for me,
and yet, even knowing that,
I let myself forget.

Anxiety is like having a voice of reason,
who is on and off mute.

Your fears and your hatred towards anything remotely challenging,
weigh over the silence of that mute amnesia.

I live in a facade—
while my pretty smile says,
"I'm just tired,"
in such a pleasant tone,
there's the me that happens to be alone.

Constantly screaming alone in my car,
begging for my thoughts to go away,
punching at anything in sight for pain feels like medicine,
and nothing—absolutely nothing—can tell me that I'm okay.

Because I know my facade isn't perfect,
it's broken like the real me,
and even though my facade tries to hint at anyone for help,
the real me is too scared of letting my feelings show.

Living in a facade,
is living in a prison cell,
created by my own mind.

I'll cry and scream out of frustration,
anxiety,
and hatred,
all by myself.

Because I need a smile on my face,
to keep you happy.