Moving stuff from an old blog pt. 3

The words drip from my pen
But are they the words I want?
I question the content that flows from my lips
The dribble, the drole, the good, the bad

Fuck you who makes me question the words I say
Fuck me for doubting my tact and skill

You're not the first
and not the last
you've burned before
but I haven't burnt you.

I won't set you on fire.
I won't set you ablaze.

My writing is poor
My thinking is sporadic
One minute jovial
The next irate
I can't describe my thoughts to you
Do you even want to hear them?

It's not what you want to hear
And it's not what I want to say

If I express myself I'm tactless
If I don't I soulless

I can't win.
I can't lose.
It's in the middle and it sucks.

Tell me your thoughts.
Tell me your secrets.
What dwells inside that brain of yours?
Sex? Drugs? Music? School? Boys? Girls?

Fuck it to hell. It's not about the good and it's not about the bad.
I am pissed. I am depressed. I am mad and I am sad.

Women who don't appreciate what you do
or rather who you do.
She's a cunt who lives vicariously through you
A woman who can't be happy with herself
Could never be happy with you.

Some say she's a bitch
Others a hoe
I can't say for sure,
I'll never really know.

Our parents did the best job they knew how to do
It's our job to do better
To make more money
To live the American dream
Suburbia. White picket fences. Vans. Soccer practice.

-SER 2-16-05