Monday, February 7, 2005

   sorry
sorry travis sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry. My mom needed me to go shopping with her. sorry sorry.
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I wrote a little something, can someone tell me what you think.
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I look at your caring stare, I see how your eyes seem glassy, but I know you won’t cry. You don’t like seeing someone you care about hurting so badly, that’s what you say. You say that things get better, that there’s always someone there. But really…is there?
Comforting words ease there way through your mouth. And the same conversation starts again. I know I need help, but can you see that, do you really understand.
I know you to well; you’ve already labeled me as an attention seeker, you believe that I don’t need help.
I’m confused.
I’m alone.
And yet you sit there; you’ve always been there; I don’t think you get the picture; you never will.
The door is slowly shutting as you hurry us into your office. I don’t attend much of these ‘meetings’, but I hate them still. Questions are hurled towards me, and I look on at you; I don’t answer. Superficial, that’s what you are, fake, phony, and artificial.
You gaze at me as if what I do holds no significance. You know what I do. People have told you…I’ve even showed you.
My arms are crisscrossed with scares of different length, width; they cascade as if spiders have weaved their webs on my skin. I don’t do it much anymore; I’ve lost my energy, my drive. You don’t know that. I don’t sleep well anymore, mind you I never really did.
You say I’m fine; you acknowledge what I do; you say that I do it for show, than why say I’m a bad influence? If I bring people down, if I make people worse than before, how can I be fine?
I’m not the one you’ve summoned, I was just brought along; I’m not the one you care about, I’m just someone to answer questions about friends; I’m nothing to you.
You’ve been talking to her, the one that’s beside me, the one you’re concerned about. She doesn’t really care, to her you’re just like everyone else; that makes you want to help her more. This is getting you nowhere so you say the meetings over, we get up and leave; it’s the same every time. If only you weren’t so blind, if only you could see that someday I’ll be gone, and all your accusations, all your beliefs about me will go flying out the window much like my body.
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