Ahem.

please note that what follows was brought on by my own psyche, and has nothing to do with anyone else. you see, i used to be known for writing really angry, depressing poetry. i think that i was so angry and depressed that i had wanted everyone else to feel as bad as i felt... and i'm good at making people feel badly with my words.

now i am not only angry, but still partially so... i think when i stop being angered by the idiocy and injustices i see around me, i will be dead. and well decayed.

who gets to say that they know who i am?
can you answer the whys and the whats
can you unriddle the questions that drive me insane?
i think not.
you're so fake.

they hde behind walls, crafted with critique
who's cool enough to find friends with the pretentious set
and here you read this, and say it's not my best
and you're right.
yet who writes my words, but me?

why is it needed to edit to fit a mold
who thinks i'm too weak to be better
who has the right to hold me back from who i am
but there's the kicker.
i've lost me before...

your words, so carefully sculpted to mold
what i needed to hear then
it was years ago, and when i want to dance
they still pierce me
and instead i stand.

you thought you knew my weakness
and you thought you could protect me
but don't hide your own shit in me, and make
me think it's mine.
i believed you.

how many years have i fought what you told me?
will the little girl ever die trying?

i visit your grave, and i wonder
if you could have chosen a different way.
and then i meet others who think just like you
and i wonder.
am i the one who's insane?

take me away, please.
the novelty of brokenness has worn off.
i rationalized the reasons, and gave you the words to say
and now i'm tired.

who broke the music?
why can't i dance?