Playing With Words
People say I'm good at playing with words and such,
But I can't keep using words as my crutch.
I'm getting older,
So I have to grow bolder.
Words can only do so much.
I have so many fears.
I cry so many tears.
I'm so angry all the time!
But I never speak; I'm just a hopeless mime.
It's like I'm made of defective gears.
I have hopes and I have dreams.
I smile and I laugh, but not all is as it seems.
I've been broken for so long
That I'm sick of the silent song;
Why can't I let someone in to hear my screams?
Is it okay that I feel so alone?
I mean, I have a home, a laptop, a phone.
I have friends, family, and pets.
That's about as content as it gets.
So why do I feel as dry and dead as a bone?
The bullies grew up long ago.
People acknowledge me as a person, now… So…
Why am I so depressed?
Why do I feel so repressed?
Why am I trapped with nowhere to flow?
I write a lot.
The memories should only be a tiny blot,
But they come in random spurts;
So suddenly that it hurts.
Maybe I should stop pretending to be something that I'm not.
I need to take action; stand tall.
I need to grow up and give life my all.
I'm tired of running,
So now I'm gunning
To answer change's call.
Maybe I am good at words and such,
But they're no longer my crutch.
I've gotten older; colder.
I've finally grown bolder.
I can fight through the pain, no matter how much.