I appreciate what you do.
Gently tapping on my shoulder, saying that you'd love to help me out.
But paranoia is a bitch that makes it sound as if you're saying that my face beholds disappointments too nasty to just walk by without getting them off of the road.
You stretch out your hand for me,
struggle to break my shackles and perhaps set me free, and
You're probably sincere about that,
You stretch out your hand
but I can't help but to feel like I'm another job you need to get done for your mind to reward you by telling you you're a good person.
don't.
Don't.
Don't.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, don't try to slide my socks on your feet, don't look through my clothes, and leave my closet alone;
There's far too many skeletons in there than I think you can bare.
And... Nobody likes razorblades, three centimeters deep in the soles of your feet, and...
Nobody likes a sense of defeat haunting your day gleams and night dreams.
Nobody loves cuts and burn marks, reminders that you've once been to battles you eventually survived.
Shut the fuck up.
Don't tell me survival is a bliss when I have reminders that I lost all over my forearms biceps chests and wrists,
Don't put yourself in my shoes.
Cause that's paralysing,
Don't place yourself where my feet should be. I'd rather have you standing there away from me criticising who I am and telling me who I should be than see you stand failingly trying to take my shoes off of me.
And if god forbid, you do.
you'd finally realize you could make progress, but you'll confess,
had you felt a new razor blade cutting through your skin with every step you took, telling you that you're a disgrace to your kin. you'd choose to stay by my side, right here...: behind.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, I'd hate for my unspoken miseries to be yours.
Come to think about it:
You can't even wear my shoes, they're missing their laces.
My browser's history goes:
Top ten easiest ways to die.
Can I hang myself with my shoelaces?
How to make a hangman's noose...-
Dont put yourself in my shoes. Who'd want that anyway? Why would you want to be a victim of both verbal and physical abuse, self loathe, political mayhem, god's wrath, and words written by the haunting soul of Sylvia Plath.
Why would you want to have a bruise across your back and burn marks on your arms that you'd have to come up with stories to cover up every time you're asked.
Perhaps, if you told so many lies you'd eventually forget why you truly have them.
It's complete fucking bullshit of a mayhem
pinned down to dull medical terminology and repeated mythology.
When you only see heroes in villains and seeing zeros in billions you're said to be pessimistic and psychotic,
And that is somehow erratic.
Mania and depression are two sides of a coin that can neither be separated nor compared.
What made me like this? You thought as you stared at my bloodshed feet and you tightened your grasp on to my defeated arm to stop me from causing any further harm.
And I gently ask you to step away, but it's a bit too late since you're already one foot deep inside my shoe.
Do you still believe I'm making a big deal out of it now that you realize how painful wearing them is?
Now that you're not blind anymore to the fact that my footprints are indistinguishable since my footsteps leave earth quakes behind?
Don't put yourself in my shoes,
I'm afraid for you. Guilt would mistake you for a throne and place itself on your shoulders not paying attention to how you weigh almost nothing compared to its to weight.
Should we happen to be walking down the same way you'd realize how my slow footsteps are keeping me behind, but don't wait.
I'm used to walking alone anyway.
Second grade,
I was six in my gymnasium class, there's a soccer game. Soccer is a game that's loved to be played by all my classmates, and I never minded being chosen last cause my team had no other option.
They knew my shoes were harmful to the ball. So nobody put themselves on my shoes and ignoring my existence was easier for them than to deal with my persistently bruised feet.
I'd slowly walk home alone from school, and all by my own, I'd think about how I'm deemed to see my father drink himself into oblivion with a face stained with defeat, my mom, would try to defend him, saying:
Try putting yourself in his shoes.
Little does she knew is that I grew to be the man I aspired to be since I was six, seven or perhaps eleven.
that it was never way too early for a kid my age to realize alcohol was good for wounds and that my shoes, like my scathed knees and bruised forehead, and the pink mush inside my head all loved the touch of razor blades.
I was thirteen when I first purposely cut open my skin, and I'm afraid it was a bit too early for me to realize that pain much much much was better than nothing at all.
...
There's so many stations I've been through and since my memory lane is too damp with nervous sweat to walk down without a trip, slip and fall.
I can tell you this instead.
It sometimes occurs to me that I might bs perhaps dead.
Nobody beat me up as much as I did.
And I always thought that if maybe life found me bruised it would leave me alone but little did I know that if life finds a blade buried across your wrist life loves pushing it deeper.
Sometimes, I can't tell whether I'm my worst enemy, or is it God.
for I have always been too busy taking care of myself to be my brother's keeper.
Don't put yourself in my shoes. I'm too young.
Too young to be this bruised, too young to sing this many blues.
There's battles ahead waiting for me to fight them, and sometimes I find myself too tired to find them so I await for them to arrive as the one man army of, I think, the dead,
For there are razor blades in my shoes, but I can't feel them, doesn't that mean...
I'm not even alive, but what other words can I use?
Gently tapping on my shoulder, saying that you'd love to help me out.
But paranoia is a bitch that makes it sound as if you're saying that my face beholds disappointments too nasty to just walk by without getting them off of the road.
You stretch out your hand for me,
struggle to break my shackles and perhaps set me free, and
You're probably sincere about that,
You stretch out your hand
but I can't help but to feel like I'm another job you need to get done for your mind to reward you by telling you you're a good person.
don't.
Don't.
Don't.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, don't try to slide my socks on your feet, don't look through my clothes, and leave my closet alone;
There's far too many skeletons in there than I think you can bare.
And... Nobody likes razorblades, three centimeters deep in the soles of your feet, and...
Nobody likes a sense of defeat haunting your day gleams and night dreams.
Nobody loves cuts and burn marks, reminders that you've once been to battles you eventually survived.
Shut the fuck up.
Don't tell me survival is a bliss when I have reminders that I lost all over my forearms biceps chests and wrists,
Don't put yourself in my shoes.
Cause that's paralysing,
Don't place yourself where my feet should be. I'd rather have you standing there away from me criticising who I am and telling me who I should be than see you stand failingly trying to take my shoes off of me.
And if god forbid, you do.
you'd finally realize you could make progress, but you'll confess,
had you felt a new razor blade cutting through your skin with every step you took, telling you that you're a disgrace to your kin. you'd choose to stay by my side, right here...: behind.
Don't put yourself in my shoes, I'd hate for my unspoken miseries to be yours.
Come to think about it:
You can't even wear my shoes, they're missing their laces.
My browser's history goes:
Top ten easiest ways to die.
Can I hang myself with my shoelaces?
How to make a hangman's noose...-
Dont put yourself in my shoes. Who'd want that anyway? Why would you want to be a victim of both verbal and physical abuse, self loathe, political mayhem, god's wrath, and words written by the haunting soul of Sylvia Plath.
Why would you want to have a bruise across your back and burn marks on your arms that you'd have to come up with stories to cover up every time you're asked.
Perhaps, if you told so many lies you'd eventually forget why you truly have them.
It's complete fucking bullshit of a mayhem
pinned down to dull medical terminology and repeated mythology.
When you only see heroes in villains and seeing zeros in billions you're said to be pessimistic and psychotic,
And that is somehow erratic.
Mania and depression are two sides of a coin that can neither be separated nor compared.
What made me like this? You thought as you stared at my bloodshed feet and you tightened your grasp on to my defeated arm to stop me from causing any further harm.
And I gently ask you to step away, but it's a bit too late since you're already one foot deep inside my shoe.
Do you still believe I'm making a big deal out of it now that you realize how painful wearing them is?
Now that you're not blind anymore to the fact that my footprints are indistinguishable since my footsteps leave earth quakes behind?
Don't put yourself in my shoes,
I'm afraid for you. Guilt would mistake you for a throne and place itself on your shoulders not paying attention to how you weigh almost nothing compared to its to weight.
Should we happen to be walking down the same way you'd realize how my slow footsteps are keeping me behind, but don't wait.
I'm used to walking alone anyway.
Second grade,
I was six in my gymnasium class, there's a soccer game. Soccer is a game that's loved to be played by all my classmates, and I never minded being chosen last cause my team had no other option.
They knew my shoes were harmful to the ball. So nobody put themselves on my shoes and ignoring my existence was easier for them than to deal with my persistently bruised feet.
I'd slowly walk home alone from school, and all by my own, I'd think about how I'm deemed to see my father drink himself into oblivion with a face stained with defeat, my mom, would try to defend him, saying:
Try putting yourself in his shoes.
Little does she knew is that I grew to be the man I aspired to be since I was six, seven or perhaps eleven.
that it was never way too early for a kid my age to realize alcohol was good for wounds and that my shoes, like my scathed knees and bruised forehead, and the pink mush inside my head all loved the touch of razor blades.
I was thirteen when I first purposely cut open my skin, and I'm afraid it was a bit too early for me to realize that pain much much much was better than nothing at all.
...
There's so many stations I've been through and since my memory lane is too damp with nervous sweat to walk down without a trip, slip and fall.
I can tell you this instead.
It sometimes occurs to me that I might bs perhaps dead.
Nobody beat me up as much as I did.
And I always thought that if maybe life found me bruised it would leave me alone but little did I know that if life finds a blade buried across your wrist life loves pushing it deeper.
Sometimes, I can't tell whether I'm my worst enemy, or is it God.
for I have always been too busy taking care of myself to be my brother's keeper.
Don't put yourself in my shoes. I'm too young.
Too young to be this bruised, too young to sing this many blues.
There's battles ahead waiting for me to fight them, and sometimes I find myself too tired to find them so I await for them to arrive as the one man army of, I think, the dead,
For there are razor blades in my shoes, but I can't feel them, doesn't that mean...
I'm not even alive, but what other words can I use?
