Written within,
the chaos that
is me, the nature,
very own nature
of me and myself,
myself and me,
me vs myself,
only to know,
that this is just
a never ending
story,
a never ending tale,
that can't be fueled
by ale, cheese,
and so many other
foods, to the
body and soul,
everywhere I go,
everywhere I was,
not now, not now,
not ever since
the battles rages on,
ironically, it does,
doing so, it's me
against me,
against the meds
on me, against
the drugs on me,
drugs - that may have
well be the catalyst
of such battles,
the fattener of
this body,
the bloating of
my rage
against me
and myself,
do this,
but you'll cant't
do that,
eat this,
but not that.
everyone notices,
ever'one did
how much
do you weight
nowadays?
what has happened
to the man we
used to see?
it's all over there,
on my medicine
cabinet, on my drug
stash, of sorts,
because I was an
addict before,
but nevere, ever
ceased to be
a drug addict
now.
And I don't know
if they know,
how much I still
hate myself,
how much I'd like
to kill myself,
start over,
wipe the slate
clean.
No.
they don't know.
all they know,
is what I do tell,
but there are
other things
I shan't tell,
because I need
to keep in check,
to sleep on time
to wake on time,
to be on the job,
on time.
They don't know
who is this guy,
collector of
draconic mumbo
jumbo, collector
of seemingly useless
trash, they can't know,
they won't ever know,
because I'm everything
and nothing at all,
I'm the guy,
paying his dues,
paing his karma
bills, so many,
scattered on me,
beside me, inside me.
I tried, oh, I tried,
to become someone
different, someone
who'd be accepted,
acknowlwdge,
responsible,
No.
I am not.
I'm a heart-shaped
box, full of notes
full of sin and regrets,
full of secrets,
no one must know.
No one will ever know.
I am who I am,
and I detest this
visage,
this reflection
of what I am,
still. I do.
I do, so much.
Everyone abandoned
my lost cause,
my lost case,
of being this
but also being that,
that which is hidden,
within, written
within, and scribbled
outside, parts of me
I need to show,
the rest - horror show,
is is written inside,
carved inside,
with a bayonnete
of war, the war
that still rages on,
that still haven't found
a way to placated,
subdued, thawed.
I am ice inside, and
fire burning too,
but the ice is gasoline,
and the fires are never-ending
pyres of myself,
burning myself on stakes,
impaled on stakes,
burning hot & cold,
while outside,
I try and mantain
to keep my head
clear, my face smiling,
while inside crying, weeping
for the pain that is
written within.
