I smile on the outside;
I make them think that I'm okay.
It seems I'd be a great actor,
I put on a great show every day.
They always are oblivious.
They think that I am fine...
They cannot see the truth,
All of the Pain that lays inside.
I make them think I'm happy,
I always give them what they want...
The "Nothing Much..."; the, "Fine, and You"
I know they don't care for the truth...
In bed at night I struggle...
I fight the demon's taunting me.
The truth they say is agonizing,
knowing what I'll never be....
I never will be perfect.
I was born with all of these flaws;
Never will somebody love me,
I will remain just a lost cause.
Breaking every second,
I realize that I can't revive...
Dead, Battered, and Broken.
I still smile on the outside.
The poem is not perfect. Neither am I. Don't expect perfection until you, yourself, achieve it. When you do, then you can come knocking on my door. Until then...
I wrote this from scratch, and I just want to bring awareness to those kids, such as me, that you walk by their house everyday and give no such thought to ringing the doorbell. Trust me, just one friend can save a life. One friend could save mine. In jeopardy, one hand to hold can mean the world and more... especially when all the hands that someone has ever held has let them go.
I know I complain a lot, and I know I say senseless things. I know that I say "This is Who I Am, You Can, Like It or Not..." But I lie. I am a Pathological liar. I care more than anything about my image; I care more than anything about who I am, and what it means to the people who exist today. I care so much that I try to constantly mold myself into someone that I am not, although I wish I was, and I even lie to myself... I tell myself it's who I really am. I don't quite know just who I am fooling, but I know I can't live like this. I can't live every second of this life being someone who I am not... it's just that, if I'm not who I've been, then who am I?
It doesn't make sense when I see people who I used to be friends with walking by my house, showing no curiosty as to my whereabouts. I worry it's me; something I did, something I said... Maybe they hate me because I am gay. It is hard, to lose so many friends and to be gay, and then to take whacks in the head again and again by people who don't really know what took place in your past. You just want to dopeslap them and yell "DO YOU KNOW YOU'RE NOT HELPING ME????" And yet... You, or at least I, just stand there and take it... virtually soaking it in.
I still smile on the outside.
I still will smile on the outside, even after this poem and these paragraphs.
Even after writing all this, I'm still going to try to fit it-- I'm still going to try to be someone who I am not for the sake of finding someone who will hold my hand.
And most of all, I am still going to look out the window and watch now-old-friends walk by my house without even noticing I'm standing right there...
Thanks for reading.
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Submission date : 2007-05-05
Last edit : 2007-05-07
Visits : 6795
Votes : 22
Rating : 5.0
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