Monday, 16 February 2009

Only the artless die.

Sometimes I have this compulsive desire to clean. Sometimes I want to cuddle up on a messy bed. Sometimes I don’t think I have a choice. Swaying from OCD to the nuisance my mom believes I am, I’ve lost that little part of me which says I can be human.

It is this lost touch with a real world which grew inside of me. Sometimes, I need my home to break down in. Sometimes I need to submit that assignment late just to prove I can fail without breaking.

It’s always the red marks that caught me and trusted me to be better next time. It’s always the green ones that approved mistakes and even encouraged them. The strip told me I’m not the only one who leaps over a null report card and hides the evidence till the garbage is taken out.

Spaceplans make me made. I refuse to dream big for a person I don’t even know. And I thought you knew what was best for me until all you did was hurt the spirit that told me I’m fine the way I am.

Everybody looked down at me thinking it’s all in my mind. Everybody razed the side skin on my stomach to prove fringes look better on thieves. Some didn’t want to understand the puns. Some tried too hard. All disgusted me.

The killers don’t condone suicide. Neither does the bulimic. So what does a gutless teen choose over the rainbow. If there was more to find than a pot of gold?

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