Tights and Moccasins

March 8, 2010
I call myself a writer
while I sit and reread those things you wrote
that overshadow anything I’ve ever thought
wondering how you hide
so low
praise me, praise me
don’t you know?
you’re breathtaking
I am nothing more than an overused metaphor
and cheap longings of hope
how don’t you know?
how can’t you see?
why is everything always about me?
take this broken record
shatter it on the ground
until all that’s left is sand in the hourglass
counting down
the confidence I verbally spew means nothing
keep my chin up
wishing I could do this like you
you claim to be worthless
but you know what love means
more records crash
pathetically I write this in realization
that I still don’t know who I am
you still hate who you are
my throat hurts from the welling of tears that no one will dry
I don’t know who I’m crying for
you called me beautiful
but so did he
I look in the mirror and see
you both lied to me
I’m at the bottom of a page now
without saying what I mean
my words don’t matter anyway





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