Monday, November 22, 2010

How high can a broken man cry.

I'm tired of making the best of what I have. I hate that I have a privileged life that people can use against me. I'm tired of feeling guilty about how and what I feel and having to justify it every goddamn second . I am physically sick in every literal sense of the word in seeing broken pieces of good people lying around the floor; constantly subjected to the feet of the ignorant, and for what? To further prove their superiority? Hey! We broke you. Now, we're gonna smother what's left of you into dust. We're gonna reduce your existence into nothing but specks of nothing to permeate the air for young dreamers. As if to say, this is what will become of you. This is a warning. But being the optimists that they are, that we were, they smell potential. They don't cough, they inhale. All that whiff of ambition was nothing but hope masked as a threat. The tragedy of reality disguised as a sweet scent of possibility. We were just cursed with seeing the good in things.

Is it wrong that I want something different? Not better, just different. From where I am sitting, it feels like a crime. They tell me I'm not thankful. They say that I'm selfish. The world doesn't revolve around you. Well let me tell you something, MY WORLD DOES. I'm allowed to want things that you don't approve of. I am entitled to my emotions as much as you are to your beliefs, to your logic, to whatever the fuck is in that sorry excuse of a skull.

One day all that dust is gonna gather and suffocate all that's left of the world; all who let their feet follow an empty voice, not bothering to look down at the broken pieces of hope they were stepping on.

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