Always wrong, forever lazy, and worthless,
a victim of my age.
Void, full of anger, and hatred,
a victim of your childhood.
I dont want to be fixed, and
crying is an unfit outward expression
of the pain that lies inside of me,
a victim of my mind.
Not bold enough to show my anger,
and not smart enough to search for another way,
a victim of my heart.
A revolution of my heart,
a chance to make you understand
dont want you to be blinded by emotions
want you to be able to see my scars,
to understand why I bleed inside.
Understand the obstacles you put in front of me
and how they made me the person I love to hate,
a victim of poetry.
I want you to know the pains that exist in me,
but the words to explain it dont exist,
a victim of language.
I hate this limited vocabulary I have,
in the dictionaries I have searched to no avail
with many pens I wrote until the ink was no more.
No run-on was long enough,
no metaphor profound enough,
convinced it was my error; (I found myself)
raping my mind with re-runs
of my own emotional murder,
a victim of myself.
Who can save me? |