This isn’t something I’m working through,
This is something I’m living with,
Though there’s a part of my soul that wants to finish this shit.
But I can’t seem to tell if there’s a soul to pitch
or if I have descended into the state of a dumb ass bitch.
I told my mother I was fine when I finally picked up the line,
And I told my friends I was fun once I put down the gun,
But I told myself I was shit and and to toughen that lip.
Where did I lose track of perfection?
And where did I find this infection?
How did it win in the face of such denial?
And how can I continue without a smile?
What do I find fun besides the threat of being done?
And what do I serve besides the objection to swerve?
When did I forget that I had such promise and hope?
And when did I allow the smoke to tighten my throat?
This is something that I’m living with
And something I could easily end with a clip.
It’s part of my soul and part of the struggle
That makes life look to me like scattered pieces of an impossible puzzle.
I take a breath and convince myself that the struggle is worthwhile,
While I have my hand on a bottle on top of the pile
Of trash I call my mind and the voice I seem to stifle,
Somewhere on top of the soul I keep hidden in denial.
There are no solutions to the problems I face,
And it’s up to me to find a place
to prosper and grow
and show the world what I have to show.
It’s up to me to find a way
to remember my sense of play
and to treat every day as if it were a gift not to slay.
But my mind is muddled and my soul is missing,
And I can’t seem to find a reason to listen
to myself or others,
and I got lost in the every day struggles.
I cannot drown out my sorrow,
And I can’t seem to borrow
A soul that fits
Or an image that sticks.
So I lay here in fits
Of frustration and anger
With a burning inside that is on the verge of danger.
These words seem to soothe the fire inside,
But the more I use them the more I can’t deny,
That this is a part of me
And a part to see
And I need to stop placing all the blame on my family tree.
Because I cannot blame genetics
for the the parts of life I cannot seem to connect with.
And I can only blame myself
For the mind I put on a shelf,
And the soul I denied
while I kept the company of three ghosts by my side:
and a desire for the most
out of a life that I would not choose to boast.
This is life and this is what I have to live with.
And damn me to hell if I become a weak ass bitch.