Today I feel like shit,
And well,
That’s just the truth of it.
There’s too much happening,
I find I have become,
A spectator,
To my own,
Ridiculous life.

I look back down at myself,
And find it hard not to laugh,
You couldn’t write this crap.
These things don’t happen to me,
They belong in movies,
My life should be calm,
I have actively avoided drama,
I am always considerate,
With impeccable Karma.

Yes I am emotionally stunted;
I can’t communicate,
When things happen,
I simply ruminate.
I don’t just bottle things up,
I press them,
And let them ferment.
My own vintage,
Of anxiety wine,
Subtle hints of depression,
Delicious with self-loathing.

And these lies,
That come easier than the truth,
Especially to myself.
I can’t see the answers,
I won’t allow it,
It’ll hurt,
So I’ll just pretend.
I’ll only chose
To make no choice,
Instead of risking,
Getting hurt,
Or getting it wrong.

God forbid,
I show,
A spec,
Of vulnerability.
Or let people know
That I might actually,
Have the ability,
To show emotion.

What a suggestion!

To be honest,
It bloody terrifies me,
The idea of showing,
But I guess now,
I’ll have to try,
I got myself into this,
In this bed I must lie.

Or actually,
Who gives a fuck.
Maybe tomorrow,
I’ll have better luck.