Records of Life

My life is like a scratched record,

trying to get out the words, but stuttering in nervous agony 

only for the fear of being declined

As the scratches rip across my glossy surface,

for the truth to break through my built up external,

trying to think without the time to process,

because you have no rythm 

or skipping full songs because it's "too personal" or "heartbreaking"

to get out or confess and you hide behind words already written for you

so no one gets the chance to ever know the real you,

YOU ARE PROGRAMED

by the universe we live in, to not say what you think, but based on your audiences 

You build up the dust over time, with lies and secrets you keep 

"The new, fresh, cool addition to the albums" they say

not even more adjectives can make you sound better because 

after a while of the "new" and "popular" 

you are discontinued to "old" and "usless"

until considered "collectable" or "rare" is when they want you

and for a few seconds you feel valuble and worth more than a few dollars

Until they find your cracks and deformities 

as they set you back on the shelf in disgust 

as you pray to be fixed

as you crack more filling with anxiety and troubles from pressure of having to be perfect

split in two , combusting under the heat or the situation, along with your heart,

and feelings pushed to the trash and left aside when you don't matter anymore

because you have the scratcges, scars, brokeness, marks, battle scars

but they don't see succes and survival of struggles, they see;

worn, used, and unnecessary in their own blindness.