forsaken
all my life try to live within the boundaries of a moral code
when I'm not sure who defined wrong and right
who wrote on my soul the "thou shalt nots"
in indelible ink with a viciously sharpened quill
tatooed into the essence of my identity
a masochistic sense of self-loathing
that demands I never do what my heart desires to.
to never run away, to never fly
showers aren't for singing, they're the only place I cry
and I hate my life
how is that possible...when there are so many that I love
but they never see me
no one ever knows
nor do they care to
I am a victim, pretending not to be
and they are so easily persuaded to believe me
it's not a lie, I wear myself on my sleeve
I simply never see that it makes me worth anything
because I'm dead inside
and I'm ready to die
I can't find anything to hope for
or believe in
there is no God to comfort me
there are no arms to hold me
there is no safe place to lay my head at night
when my bed is a battle zone
this isn't poetry
it's me....bleeding anguish because it hurts too much to hold it anymore
I'm scared that I'm as worthless
and unloveable
and ugly
as he says I am
what if it's true
and I will never, ever know what it's like
to be real
or really loved
does anyone else understand, anyone
how horrible it is to be too strong
for suicide
is there anyone on this God-forsaken planet
that can simply understand me
or am I just looping futile circles
in the dark landscape of my looming insanity
always alone
when I'm not sure who defined wrong and right
who wrote on my soul the "thou shalt nots"
in indelible ink with a viciously sharpened quill
tatooed into the essence of my identity
a masochistic sense of self-loathing
that demands I never do what my heart desires to.
to never run away, to never fly
showers aren't for singing, they're the only place I cry
and I hate my life
how is that possible...when there are so many that I love
but they never see me
no one ever knows
nor do they care to
I am a victim, pretending not to be
and they are so easily persuaded to believe me
it's not a lie, I wear myself on my sleeve
I simply never see that it makes me worth anything
because I'm dead inside
and I'm ready to die
I can't find anything to hope for
or believe in
there is no God to comfort me
there are no arms to hold me
there is no safe place to lay my head at night
when my bed is a battle zone
this isn't poetry
it's me....bleeding anguish because it hurts too much to hold it anymore
I'm scared that I'm as worthless
and unloveable
and ugly
as he says I am
what if it's true
and I will never, ever know what it's like
to be real
or really loved
does anyone else understand, anyone
how horrible it is to be too strong
for suicide
is there anyone on this God-forsaken planet
that can simply understand me
or am I just looping futile circles
in the dark landscape of my looming insanity
always alone
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