Sunday, March 16, 2014

A Poem of Sorts

Context: I wrote this shortly after I cried in class, due to sensory overload catalyzed by people being dicks to me.. I'm fine, it was just really loud that day. This was in September, I believe. Also, it bears absolutely no connection to my most recent post; I just finally decided to publish this after looking over it again. 

I cannot flee,
or hear or see,
my way to become an escapee.
My tears burn of a thousand words--
words that no one has heard,
but me all these years--
compounding into a million fears.
"I am a worthless obstacle to you, 
and there's nothing I can do.
I am weird, a freak,
with an uppity streak."
All these words I hear in my mind,
just be passive for a facade of kindness.
No matter your struggles or daily stress,
he is the arbitrator of you, and you're a mess.
"The world isn't built for you,
it's obviously for me,
please respect my god-given supremacy!" 
These words I hear may not be said,
but from their self-righteousness it's easily read.
It morphs and twists,
but still exists. 
[Note: the above section was written right after the incident, the later parts were later that day and week.]
Of course I must have no emotions,
according to arbitrary emotion quotients.
Then how can it be,
that every sound I see,
every sight I hear,
is not an issue? 
For I might as well be a deer,
I must not think;
I must not feel,
a facade of humanity;
I am not real. 
My hands and feet 
as cold as steel,
but I do think,
and I do feel. 
Even when my world
says what I feel
is not real,
and what I think
is believing red is teal.