Obsessed

by Noise Pollution

I
am self obsessed
just don’t forget
and you’ll be fine.

and I
have low self-esteem
whatever that means
but I’ll be fine.
and for now, everything is alright
and for now, every seal is shut tight
but just wait
til I break
til I lie.
Oh just wait
it’s just great
when I lie.

When I lied, I thought I could do anything, full of emotion with a spider ring. A million bucks or a penny couldn’t mean a thing to me, couldn’t figure out what it means to me. And I couldn’t see the world when I took fourteen, and I screamed and I cried and I made a scene and I left you to lie in a world unseen. In the back of my eye, there’s a limousine, where memories go when they take their leave, but only as far as my bloodstream. To remove them, I had to go to stupid extremes. And there’s a scar on my back where they cut too deep, and I lost every track that could connect me to the world where I live, where I want to be, to the love that I lack to the mystery. And God, when he saw simply turned around, with his head in his hands ‘low a thorny crown, told his wife and his kids I could not be found, that I fled and I hid and I stopped the sound.

And now, to this day, with each time that I pray, there’s never an answer, there’s just a “die and go away” and there’s a stairway to heaven, but they’ve shut the gates, and there’s a price to be paid but he’s lowered my wage and with every single song and every single day there’s a hundred lives lost and a hundred and one made, so what am I worth, if I can’t get laid? Will everyone change while I stay the same? And I used to think I was a couple of years behind, and I knew it was true until I changed my mind, because all of the purpose, and every chance to find, myself, you can’t follow somebody if you follow them blind. And I’ve accepted the fact that I’ll someday die, but I reject the idea that no one else can stay alive. If they can be happy, then why can’t I? I’ll figure it out, I mean, I do, sometimes. I mean, I did when I looked up right into the clouds, I could’ve sworn that I maybe possibly had it all written down, but f I did it was lost with all my poems about, all my stupid problems and my childhood doubts. But for now it’s just fine to not understand and for now I’ve got another hand in my hand. It’s a fleeting thing, when the camera pans Ill see that there’s just another hand in her hand.

but for now, I am alive.
For now, I am inside.

And its warm.

A poem that turns into broken prose that I wrote in high school.

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