I know a girl called Beverly
she writes amazing poetry
about tears falling in slow motion
and fatherless homes, finding, in, sadness
beauty.
and i like to think she does the crying for me
but sometimes i think she doesn't enough
because I'm collapsing nowadays
a twitching eye, I'm bursting at the seams
and no one can tell, because I'm, I'm,
I'm not the type. All right?
I write sad but smile afterwards
but theres a rage within
that is starved, lonely and unheard
i want to scream but too scared my voice will squeak
don't want to expose myself in case I come across weak
but I'm not, I'm at a stage in my life where people believe in me
and I want to, so desperately, not love me,
I'm a born let-down. It's what I do. I'm self-centered
so weird when no one in your small circle doesn't really know you
because, Sean. Me. I. Don't know who i am
or where I'm going, all i know is I'm moving too fast and it feels wrong
Because I'm arguing with my sister for no reason
then going to eat pasta and breaking down in the kitchen
and still, the tears don't fall, I stop them, though i want them to
I wont even allow my emotions to show, can't let go of my fucked up self
and i don't know why because he's never been a help.
I'm finally in the position i want to be in, and I doubt whether there's a man who can deal with the pressure, somewhere deep down within.
and the pressure isn't even real, i put it there, like i turn good work to hardships like i asked for this. Like i like this.
fuck this. this poetry is the lyrical equivalent to cutting wrists
i could never do it, i always thought it was stupid, besides i could self harm from deciding to take fists.
and i think i've just gone a little too far rightnow.
