Pointless

It's all fucking pointless. I try and I try and I try to get what I want, to get what I need. But it seems that every step I take in genuinity makes me look more and more fake... Who am I really? This quiet and timid placid thing that does what everybody tells her day in day out, smiling on the outside and never complaining, until she gets home and unleashes all of her hatred and rage into the painful exhaling of cone after cone after cone...

Getting rediculously stoned to then follow through with passing out early and unproductive, pretending that I'll enjoy the 8 hours rest before waking up to do it all pathetically again, like I have some form of growth or enjoyment in this pointless exercise. The fat get fatter, the rich get richer the poor get abused and fucked over.

Why must everyone I meet feel that it's okay to shit on the little guy? Oh and trust me, you may not know it but at some point in your life, you've shat on a little guy... We all have. I'm just sick and tired of the little guy being me...

'Did I make a terrible mistake?

An error in judgement that I cannot seem to shake?

It looks as if I'm stuck here in this dream, yet I cannot wake.

I pull the terrors apart like pillows made of sand,

but underneath there exterior they're still uneventful and bland...

A splash of colour, a dabble of paint is all this place would need, a little yellow or something mellow to put the heart at ease,

It's hard when you're the only circle fitting into a square, you're really close but not close enough for any of them to care.

These pretty, pastel people,

these withered angry people,

these accosting costly people,

are taking my mind away...

And the harder I try to keep it from them, the more that I regress, and pretty soon I'll be so withdrawn inside that I too will be colourless.'

It's like they want to sew buttons onto my eyes... This place, was supposed to be full of life and enjoyment, where I would fulfil my dreams, where I would become who I was supposed to become. But it's so different to what I expected. I do not mind the work load, I'm not saying it's too hard... The tasks I enjoy, at least when I have to do everything it keeps me busy. It's the moments where I have nothing to do that stirs me... I can't stand being in the same room as her. If it's for more than 5 or so minutes, I feel my hands starting to shake... In fear, in intimidation, in anger and opression more than anything... 'All anybody knows, is your not like them'.
It's almost as if she feels she's got me figured out, when she knows jack fucking shit about me, or who I am.
None of them know me, would any care to find out? No, why should they? I'm just some stupid 18 year old hippy "What the fuck am I asking you for? You're just some stupid hippy".... Thats prejudice and fucking horrible. A manager is supposed to manage, but she doesn't! She just sits around and yells at people when they get too comfortable. She constantly has to 'redominate' like she's some lioness trying to keep her pride...

I'm not coming in to take anything from her. I just simply want to enjoy my work environment... Being this miserable, is not helping my art. I feel like I'm depressed more days out of my week than I am happy... nothing I ever do seems to make it any different... Just different in the way in which I go home feeling disapointed. Fml.

Memory Lane

This is the place you end up when you lose the chase
Where you're dragged against your will from a basement on the hill
And all anybody knows is you're not like them
And they kick you in the head and send you back to bed
Isolation pulled you past a tunnel
To a bright world where you can make a place to stay
But everybody's scared of this place, they're staying away
Your little house on Memory Lane
The mayor's name is fear
His force patrols the pier
From a mountain of cliche
That advances every day
The doctor spoke a cloud
He rained out loud
You'll keep your doors and windows shut
And swear you'll never show a soul again
But isolation pushes you 'til every muscle aches
Down the only road it ever takes
But everybody's scared of this place, they're staying away
Your little house on Memory Lane
If it's your decision to be open about yourself
Be careful or else
Be careful or else
I'm comfortable apart
It's all written on my chart
And I take what's given me
Most cooperatively
I do what people say and lie in bed all day
Absolutely horrified
I hope you're satisfied
Isolation pushes past self-hatred, guilt, and shame
To a place where suffering is just a game
But everybody's scared of this place, they're staying away
Your little house on Memory Lane
Your little house on Memory Lane

Freak of nature

Fear grips. Lights fade out. A figure dressed in normal clothes warps and turns alien. Glowing, and melting, the walls seem to breathe in and out, everything looks strange, tilted, like the room was built on a terrible slope... Will I fall off the face of the Earth? Will my mind survive this cavalcade of jumping, itchy, spine chilling epiphonies? Fear continues to grip, but my eyes cannot stop crying in laughter and joy. Afraid, but content, afraid but happy.

Strength. Dripped in what I would never want, but somehow do. Is this fair of me? To act and be this way? So much attention they demand from me, these eager, wanting faces. Are they real? Is everyone in this room actually in this room?

I don't really know if I'm even in this room anymore. Long day, even longer night. A busyness that I cannot ignore, tasks, tasks, tasks. I wear the hazy mask of alertness when my insides ache and my mind has been depleted of all happiness, yet somehow, that smile still continues.
Solice and comfort in singing old and forgotten heartbeats.

Long train ride, the evil stench of urine and alcohol... I hate this place, solice turns to the want to cry. What is so wrong? Why does this wrong feeling creep up in my stomach. Nothing that I am doing is wrong. Nothing that I'm doing is selfish, yet the feeling lies there anyway...

'It's what he thinks, holding me there, in that state of guilt. Forget, and enjoy the night to come'.

I forgot what it meant to just, chill out. I forgot what it meant to literally pass out. Didnt get what I came for, but got something out of it all just the same. A friendship, that I think I can finally allow myself to enjoy.

Next morning, falling asleep on the train. The place that holds me, the cavern, the dark, the dreary. The sun doesn't seem to shine once I've stepped through those doors, and seen that dark haired, miserable and opressive face.
Here, I'm the minority. Here, I'm the odd one out.
...Yeah... I'm a freak of nature.

Dreams crushing under the weight of peer pressure and conformity. Fighting and chasing an acceptance that will never come, because of insecurity and pathetic childishness. I need to get out. I need to find someone with a passion for teaching, not a passion for making money.

Fuck my life, but not on the weekends.