I called Paul.

Reject me with a reason, so I know what to fix
Tell me you hate me, outright, so I don’t drown in self-doubt, wondering
Talk about me behind my back but don’t say nothing
Care that I am alive, or I mightn’t be

No matter what’s in the package if one can’t see past this logo
A society simultaneously embracing mental health issues but still
judging from the perch of billboards and bandwidths so
no better off at all, not at all

It’s a cycle I recognize, once, twice a year
A horrible angst of crippling insecurity
Pride in tact as I deal with it, this round, in my foxhole for one
But it’s also terribly intense this way, even scary

Afraid to go for a walk to clear my head
For fear of social disease rather than physical disease
So the mental disease festers
I called Paul

Everyone seems so damn righteous whereas I feel horribly unsure
About absolutely everything except one thing, the singing
I called Paul, begging
So it’s back to Bobcaygeon, I go

To stop peering through The Almighty Portal
To instead see myself through his eyes, a Diva
To make music, create, write, sing, be holy
Secret salvation.


À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
Cette entrée, publiée dans Poetry, est marquée . Mettre ce permalien en signet.

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