Meanwhile, I…
You burst into flame when the rage arises
You alter your virtuous cover when the monstrous spirit arrives
You’ve got the free pass to vocalise any verdict like a song
You will not stop grumbling to the wall
You’re proud of yourself for having no control over your own wrath
You channel your lunacy like it’s a damn bloodbath
You attenuate the peculiar traits that are actually, for me, avail
You perfected my own version of “The Longhorn Son” tale
Meanwhile,
I can’t untangle the rope that makes my tongue tied
I’m unable to process my reluctance, my weariness, my hatred
I’m not allowed to yell even though the demons inside me are ultra-squealing
I’m motionless when my sentiments are piercing
I have to be quiet to keep things natty
I’m committing sins equals to I’m answering the queries directed at me
I must follow the unwritten yet vague and ridiculous rules
I can’t colour my whole painting in polychrome tint but hues of blue
What the hell does actually differ us?
Why does it seem like you deliberately want me to always cuss?
Were you made of some kind of rare gems like painite?
Why do I always hear "Bold of you to gab!" after I talk back?
Don’t I deserve the amicability of your heart?
Aren’t you supposed to build a kind and nurturing environment, from the start?
Didn’t those unruffled parents of yours teach you how to be cool?
Otherwise, where did you befriend that godless soul?
Yours, sæb
27 May 2024
