Living Here

Living here,
Is all deception.
Nothing is ever,
what it appears.

You see,
Clean white tiles
And happy family portraits;
Make-up and charades a-plenty.

They are acts of frustration,
False and necessary.
But that doesn't mean,
They hurt any less.

It's another bang,
Another angry scream-session.
I don't really want to know,
Never really needed to listen.

So I do not.
I live in the records,
Party with Elvis,
Weep with Andy.

Rock with Freddie,
Lament with Michael,
It's all better than,
Taking off these earphones.

Never made things better.
I have many battle scars,
Yet none were from victories.

They will not,
Allow me peace.
No time to lick
At my wounds.

They always
Want the last say.
Just to show me,
I cannot triumph.

My 'winnings',
Are really theirs,
Twisted around,
To make a fool of me.

And I will wallow,
In my private sea of salt;
My laurels,
Little more than thorns.

Yet what else can I do?
Rhetorical questions
And my useless speculations.
A waste of lost time.

But here,
Living here,
Most of your time is lost anyway,
And all you can do is pretend.