I feel like,
The day others would care to see if I’m doing fine,
Is when I die.
“I know he’s in heaven watching us from the sky…”
“He’s with God now,
Rather than suffering in a world where he mostly cried in…”
I can only imagine the narrative.
“Why couldn’t he reach out for help and love himself more?”
Even if I did while they had refused to open their doors.
What do you do when one is in denial,
Of their denial of love for their own?
No answer for a puzzle I’ve abhorred,
Since my family tried inserting multiple knifes into the hole Depression burrowed through my chest…
Kind of like an eternal curse of rejection.
Not being good enough,
Even if I lay amongst souls so far from reaching their made up world of perfection.
Hypocrites whom carry smiles for their obvious deflection.
Attempting Theft of a Life I’ve worked profusely on to witness my own Heaven,
All because they are dead inside and only find happiness through Possession,
As Demons in the flesh of a Family fallen to their own depression…
Isolation is the only message I can send.
Separation from their hatred seems to be what’s best.
Noticing my peace solely being rattled by a group of snakes wishing for my Death,
How can I continue living as myself by getting laced with Venom they inject,
Into everyone they “bite” from?
Them doing what I do after spitting on my dreams.
Working the same job they’ve looked down upon,
Even if it keeps them up off the street.
With imitation being one of the greatest forms of flattery,
I eat each hit to my character,
And bulk up every bar I write with no intent to waste lines,
Until I master Love within my own desolate vanity…