I used to be more fun than I am.
I open up Twitter and close it again.
Every day is the same endless stream
of things that make me want to go back to sleep.
Grinding my teeth and balling my fists,
exhaling deeply and all of this
does nothing to dissuade the nausea inside
that only swallows me when I open my eyes.
And I can’t let it go...
It comes with me everywhere.
And I can’t carry on...
It rests on my shoulders square.
And I can’t let it go...
It stays in the back somewhere.
And I can’t carry on...
Some days I wish that I didn’t care.
Six years ago when I was twenty four
I posted a rant and a metaphor
inspired by my Mother’s lack of care for
any tragedy that occurs abroad.
People inspire themselves to be mad
at so-called “snowflakes” that are “offended”.
Facebook tells me one that one of my friends
has shown their colours as a bigot again.
And I can’t let it go...
It comes with me everywhere.
And I can’t carry on...
It rests on my shoulders square.
And I can’t let it go...
It stays in the back somewhere.
And I can’t carry on...
Some days I wish that I didn’t care.
It’s been said before but I’ll say it again:
some days I feel like I was meant for a meaningful end
so take my hand and walk down the tracks with me,
bare witness as I throw myself on the gears of the machine.
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