PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

He knew all along that i wasn't in love, I was dependant. Dependant on everyone who's ever told me I'm pretty, smart, or funny.

I don't know if it's possible to be completely false and pray that someone kill me so I don't have to repeat my mistakes in a new form or fashion simply because some god thought it would be funny to cycle my soul around and cause me pain.

I can't say as I care right about now about anything.



but I do.



because i'm weak.



Oh well. I'm used to it.

I'll just travel to another town and start again and write my songs and play my friends like chesspieces on a world map and pretend that everything's okay, when it's not, because we're all just reading cue cards when we think of something to say, and no amount of passion can convey how much I hate the way everyone assumes the realists are false and the fallacious are intellects.

Intellect is decided by more than pretty words.

I suppose I've braced for impact and decided my fate in the ones who stick around and smile when I laugh and cry when I am screaming inside.

I'm feeling very poetic.

Maybe I should just write songs and sing them in coffee shops around collegetowns and become some indie folk hero that everyone claims is so well adjusted and well spoken.

And I'll make money off the sorrow you think I don't feel and I'll smile while you pay me because you're the idiot who's giving your money to someone you know has found the words you only xerox.

People hate to feel. it's inherent.

People hate to know that when something bad happens and they are happy, they should be guilty. For nothing.

Be happy, be exuberant, enfold your feelings in a big blanket and keep them close at hand in case you need to pull one out for show.

Too bad so sad. Looks like I'm back at the drawing board with no chalk.