I think it is just fucking painful to write or to read a poem again.
those forgotten files htat i put in the folder of POEMS
they were so good that i bearly recognise them as my own.
Life is so horrible that it strip me so publicly, and dress me up in dazzling clothes that doesnt quite fit me
And i m still living in a metaphor world in a language that I cant make out of
To find a place that i belong is like finding steam fish in a mcdonald menu. Not anyone fault that you cant find it, the idea of looking for that in the first place is jsut, redundent.
I am a poet, or so I told her
You are such a writer, or so thye tell me and so she mocks
because I m irrational, because i m so lost in my own darkness that I think i like it.
I am such a Jenny Shacter that sometimes I feel that I am the kinda person who does not deserve to be happy
I change myself like I change clothes and hair style. I am in my post teenage search for identity, and I am so ashame of being a late developer.
I jsut found out there are certain thing you cant tell your mum. my mum.
things like, your virginity, your love for alcohol, that you masturbate, that you know about sex so much better than her, even though you did not concieve a child in the missionary position.
things like, who you really are.
things like, you think you actually love her
things like, how mess up is their parenting skill
things like, you go through therapy becoz of that
things like, despite of how they ruinned you, you forgive them just becoz they are your parent, and you forgive them while you constantly plead for forgiveness in all the wrongs that you did.
in all the wrongs that you did, without agreeing that you did anything wrong at all.
things like that, you dont wanna tell your mum about