Tribute to self
People talk about getting a life, but how do yo make a life, live the life that you want, when you feel like a trash can with all the weight of the world on your shoulders, misery tearing at your flesh?
When there’s regret stuck behind your throat and the backstabbers caressing your neck?
You feel your blood itching against your skin, hear your wrist begging you “Slit me open, please, please, slit.”
Play the music on, come on, dance along.
What are you so afraid losing when you have yet achieved nothing? What will they do? Beat you, starve you? They have done all that and worse anyway.
Thet are gonna stop you from flying, cut your wings down, tie your limbs but it’s up to you to fucking make yourself happy. Stand the fuck up, shave your head, get a tattoo. You have nothing but these words so make a fucking art out of this. What the fuck have they taught you at school? They should’ve told you that heartbreaks breed good aet. There’s a canvas where our hearts should be.
They probably won’t post this on newspapers because I’ve given too many “fucks” here and the column might think it cliche.
But screw it, bring the banners and I’ll call it a poetic revolution.
It’s so loud, so loud inside my head and I need those motherfuckers to stop. Light up a damn cigarette, drink and rob their souls until they call the cops. This was meant to be a poetry but now it’s a fucking rap song.