Perceived danger
has made you all strangers
and me willing
to destroy my dreams,
tear them at the seams
if it's a mercy k**ing.
To not let my fervor
turn me scapegoat herder
(I'm taking names, I'm giving grief).
Some hand-holding holdout scolding the sold-out...
it's not who I was meant to be.
But if I lose my persistent fear of d**h,
won't somebody please call my therapist?
'Cause I've been working so long to prove myself wrong
when I said puberty would be my midlife crisis.
And I'd say I wanna go back to when I felt okay.
Or I'm sure I would, if i could remember
when that was, anyway.
It remains to be seen if I'll be spared;
if I can be happy without being scared,
or if I need a vacation
from all the subtle evasion,
the idiot checks for protecting my neck,
and the reticence as self-preservation.
Baggage. Damage. Psychic ills.
Black coffee to take my pills.
The hope that all these wounds could be
the places the light enters me.
There's no neutral narrative
or, at least, that's what I've been parroting
in so many words (mostly intransitive verbs),
and only 'cause hyperbole...
well, it's like, literally the worst.