Another Day Living
Some may ask why I don't cry.
Why is there this dryness of my eyes?
With all of this shit in this world,
how am I so cool,
how come nothing gets to me.
Truth is, I have to tell myself
I'm not depressed I'm not scared.
That I'm happy, I'm smart.
But as soon as I think it,
I know it is a sham:
One that's ever so slowly eating my heart.
Because, in truth, I cry.
But not in front of watchful eyes.
And I keep a portrayal of neatness
because no matter what anyone says,
I know its a weakness.
I cry because of my hair,
my friends,
my weight,
my not so dazzling personality that I hate.
I shed tears for the years
I spent trying to be perfect,
something that even if you actually achieve,
isn't worth it.
And I hear that clock go ' tick-tock'
And I hear that clock go ' tick-tock'
as I run out of hope,
Knowing that I've been ran
out of ways to cope.
Because when I see all these people
puffing smoke and snorting coke,
that's the only time I feel some hope.
Wait, did I say that outloud?
Wait, did I say that outloud?
Lately the thoughts in my head
have been getting too loud.
Like " go head girl, smoke that whole pound.".
Hell, I might pass out
and wake up tomorrow like
" damn, another day living."
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