Always a mistake. From day one.
Born a mistake to make mistakes from then on out. Too nerdy, too white, too black, too lame, too anti social, lonely, needy, melodramatic, overthinking, foolish. Over dependent. Financially retarded. Backwards.
Stupid little fucking hope, that bird never stopped singing for one second. But it was always a mistake. Trying to make it work, fit in society, make it fit into me. For what? To live as a constant disappointment?
Always a victim and a mistake, fucking up confident and alive but having the audacity to be surprised when what goes up comes down. Living good despite a miserable existence. Then living shit with a shit existence.
Where have I had a point all these years? An impact? Twenty-somethings’ with gut are producing their art for the world to hear. I sit in my tiny apartment with my dog and my cat terrified of the outside. Terrified of people and desperate for them to notice. Painting and dreaming.
Why doesn’t any of it make sense? Want friends, be a hermit. Want love, fuck everything on two legs. Want a career, drown yourself in debt. I’m so confused, I sit on the edge of my balcony and stare at the concrete. Imagine myself splattered like Rorschach across the parking lot. Can you see what was in me now? All the dark, and the light, that kept me alive for so long. Love. Family. Success.
All pretty things in pretty boxes for pretty people. And for the rest? The kids too busy doodling or daydreaming in class, the ones who damn near didn’t graduate or dropped out, or were sold on the college lie, the fuckups “with potential”? What about them? The ones who could change the world if they weren’t busy struggling beneath it. Average in class or worse, over emotional or absentee, artists even if they don’t let themselves be. The ones who didn’t get a scholarship, worked their way through didn’t get a loan or got one at the expense of every family member with credit available, only to further fuck up and let the grades slide. They’re always so disappointed.
Everything aches. Back, shoulders, head, heart. Can’t keep food down, makes me sick. Can’t stay asleep, haven’t burned in a week. Can’t focus in class, struggling through homework, tired of tears.
Absolutely disgusted with myself. Dug my grave and I intend to lie in it. Survived the 3rd grade bully but left labeled “too white”. Survived middle school the only nigga but left as “that black *****”. Traded high school truancy for a diploma and loans. So, so many loans.
Made it to art school, let that little shit bird live on the assumption it was salvation. Wrong. There is no salvation. Granny said it best: “life sucks”.
Life sucks and then you die. If it weren’t for my mother, for finding the other half of my soul I’d be dead now. Not sure how much longer I can hold out, how much longer I can keep being the melodramatic victim I’m sure that I am. I’m not depressed, I don’t have the right. I don’t have severe anxiety, its all in my head. The up and down isn’t manic depression, its psychosomatic bullshit.
Just bullshit. And mistakes.
Keep making the mistake of living.