i have a love
and tall tales
but it’s the
souls with no
that get their
i have a love
and tall tales
but it’s the
souls with no
that get their
that i loathe
has no worth.
Well I’m sick of it, over it, however you want it said
I’m telling it straight ’cause it might be the only chance I get
Just shut up, just shut up, would you stop telling me who I am?
I’m sick of it, over it, however you want it said…
Some people find it really easy to write about themselves.
I respect them for that. For being able to express innermost thoughts and more private sentiments in articulate ways, and for having that certain imbued capability in their writings where other people could read their catharsis and be able to feel all their emotions, sympathise with their plights, and look at the world in another perspective, in their own personal perspective. Of course, even if they can’t exactly relate to whatever situation that person is caught up in, they could still nod their head understandingly, dole out some hopeful dime-a-dozen platitudes, and perhaps even offer some needed advice to them, just as normal human beings should.
Whenever I attempt to write about myself, my life, or my current feelings, I tend to drown it in cryptic nuances and fuck-all metaphors that are so incredibly twisted to the point where even I don’t find any sense in it anymore. That’s why I’m more adept with poetry than prose, and why I find music to be the most therapeutic outlet for myself, above anything else. And also why I hate the shit out of essays and formal writing so much. But in the rarest blue-moon times when I try to abandon that sort of familiar style and write something that’s concise and straight to the point, in simple words that are the closest to the truth, it always makes me so disgusted with myself because I always sound like I’m whining too much and making such a big deal out of nothing. And even then, I couldn’t help but add way too much labyrinthine sentences and complicated head-scratching quips to sugarcoat the naked ugliness of it all. Case in point, this very write-up itself. Sweet irony to further press the point.
I’ve always found it difficult to talk about myself. I don’t know exactly what what happened to me that made me turn out to be this way, but whenever I try to open up, a million desperate hands pull me back inside as a thousand alarm bells seem to scream and flash red lights inside my head, all of these, all at once, giving me a major dose of anxiety that takes a long while to wear off. I never know how to be completely honest without feeling awkwardly uncomfortable, and vice versa, it’s a great struggle for me when people start getting too real and personal with me. I tend to be a very secretive person, and I’m not a great support to come running to when you got problems and need to talk it out, because I’ll probably just intensify the headache that you already have and turn it into a full-blown migraine. Trust me, some of what-unsurprisingly-scant friends I have can testify for that fact in front of a court jury with both their hands on the bible.
(But on the plus side, being a secretive person also means that I’m basically Fort Knox when it comes to keeping the secrets of other people, so…redemption??)
I try my very best to be comforting and truthful when times call for it, but somehow, I could never completely shake off that vague feeling of uncertainty, that constant nagging voice at the very back of my mind that tells me that I’m doing something wrong, or tells me that I’m not doing enough, or tells me that I’m fucking overcompensating, or whatever stupid made-up issues it has with my attempt to act like a decent human being. I’ve always just found it easier to repress everything, every difficulty and emotion that’s going on in my overwhelmed mind, to simply keep it all to myself no matter how dire it is, rather than to bother anyone else with it, and I’ve always found it easier to keep people at a ten-foot pole’s length with acerbic witticism and sarcastic dismissals, because when they get too close, someone would always get hurt, and it always ends in a devastating fallout.
To put it shortly, I don’t know how to be empathetic. And I don’t know how to make people empathise with me. Up to now, I’ve always convinced myself that it was my biggest strength.
But perhaps…it just might be my greatest weakness.
I know I have issues
But I don’t need to hear it coming from you
It’s something that I’ll work through
The beating of my heart’s not stopping anytime soon
It’s not stopping anytime soon…
Sadness is sadness
Until it’s reversed
Frowns turn to madness
And smiles perverse
Writing is writing
Until a mind notices
Words turn to endings
And stories to sense.
Borderline drowning in these messy thoughts
I’ll come down once I get some more
This substance got a hold on me, I’m insecure
I’m hearing voices, what the fuck’s that sound?
I’m going through problems I shouldn’t talk about…
I put myself in someone else’s heart
And it didn’t beat, no, it didn’t beat at all
My soul’s uncomfortable from twisting
And turning, trying to fit in the desperate crawl
The insecurities taste as heavy as substances
Making my open veins cough up less blood
I just don’t believe in myself as much as I should
And doubts weigh me down when I’ve had
A step away from my eyes and into empty shoes
Which squeaked when I wore them, the laces loose
And the soles were worn down from these miles of walking
I may have gone the distance but I didn’t do the talking
I’m no longer genuine, just as diamonds are always fake
Covering up for my mortalities with graver mistakes
And pretending I wasn’t me, for once I don’t know
What the parts of my anatomy were, how everything goes
The self-hatred whispers things I don’t want to have thought
And my mama tells me I’ve always been what I’m not
Head a mess, anxiety regaled in fanfare intuition
They say life’s not fair without a taste of contradiction
But I’m just trying to regain what I once lost with my pen
Discover all the stories I missed making amends again
I put myself in someone else’s heart, and it didn’t beat at all
But mine only started to breathe when I let myself answer the call.
I’m not comfortable
No, I just can’t seem to feel at all
I’m not comfortable
So, I’ll take another pharmaceutical
‘Cause I’m uncomfortable…
i’m up against
a pen that
thinks too much
and an imagination
that refuses to
if i was still myself now
in the words that i wrote
and the things that i said
and the songs that i sang
then i’d be a whole lot less
in the words that i borrowed
and the things that they said
and the songs that were never
even mine to mouth along to.
then; who else would i be but
another one who lost their mind
trying to stay true to themselves?
i could be
pains i feel
but then why
should i hide
in the words
that make it
all too real?
I’m calling you from the future
To let you know we made a mistake
And there’s a fog from the past
That’s giving me, giving me such a headache
And I’m back with a madness…
When I reevaluate myself
Where do I start to draw the line
Between the beginning and the change
Down my brain or with my spine?
When did my hands start shifting
To change pure gold into black rust
And lucidity became obstinate
Covering the mirrors with cold dust?
What place was my starting line
And when did I stumble and trip?
Did I get to the checkered finish
Or trampled by my opponents’ feet?
Why did my pen become cynical
And my heart run out of honest ink
How did my eyes fail to see the picture
When did my mind cease to think?
Have I truly changed for the better
Or did I just become a stranger shape
From fitting out of the cramped box
Because I wished for a little more space?
Did I drift away from my audience
As their applause started to sound the same
Was I meant for a moment in spotlights
Or was I meant to hide away my own name?
Were these lines on my face here before
Or the lines on my arms and thighs?
And the lines I once thought avant-garde
Are they now nothing but banal lies?
And why did my tongue get longer
But the accuracy in their wings clipped
Confusion may soar abound the sky
But my heavy body refuses to lift
Regrets and problems, I once could carry
Have broken my back and my will to be
The things I loved, reduced to wistful smiles
Memories once happy turned sorry
I wish I didn’t sulk and drain myself
Turn off the lights just to be haunted by ghosts
I fucking wish I didn’t have to be so insecure
To let emotions linger like a gracious host
Sometimes I think I really know myself
Until everyone says the complete opposite
And everything I do turns upsidedown
I become less uncertain of my purposeful visit
Just who was I? Or rather, just who am I now?
When I reassess, all I do is think and rethink again
It hurts my head, and I’ll just start to lose myself
Better to keep the present than to bury myself in past skins.
I got rage every day, on the inside
The only thing I do is sit around and kill time
I’m trying to blow out the pilot light
I’m trying to blow out the light
I’m just young enough to still believe, still believe
But young enough not to know what to believe in…