àBandaidß
BY: BeF
It isn’t like I bruised my knee.. got a cut,
something that could be cured…
almost completely resolved,
with a fucking bandaid…
sure… I did lay there,
I was mentally bleeding for a while,
sure… I got back up,
but it wasn’t fucking easy.
It wasn’t easy enough to make me better,
there was no fucking bandaid - cure all.
That’s a joke.
And in my case…
ugly marks will scar me forever,
they won’t scab over,
they will not eventually disappear,
I only WISH I could manipulate the past…
but since I can’t,
I refuse to live there.
How can I prevent my cuts from infection?
Not with creams… that’s too easy…
I actually have to DEAL with this shit.
It’s like visiting relatives that you don’t even know…
I’ll have to organize my thoughts,
like trying to organize a conversation,
with these people… your family…
that you have no clue about.
I’m guessing everyone around me,
can see my utter confusion,
but I don’t think they want the truth.
When they find out I went through counceling,
they ask casually… like it’s not big deal,
"Why… what was wrong?"
That is the instance that assures me,
it tells me that everyone is fucked up inside,
just not everyone shows it.
Those people, they aren’t asking,
"Why were you there, I want to talk about it,
I want to make you feel better"…
they really don’t care much about me,
they are concerned about what is wrong,
simply to compare my misfortunes to their own…
The way they see it, if a normal girl,
raised in a good family… like me,
could end up going to counceling…
then anyone could…
including them….
But do they really want an answer?
They are asking me,
"AM I FUCKED UP, TOO!"
I’m guessing they get a little scared,
There’s nothing to be afraid of,
I am starting to enjoy being able,
to question things, and actually think.
In fact, I think I should thank these people,
the people that ask me what was wrong,
thank them for making me feel "sane"
Because we’ve all bruised our knees,
we’ve all gotten a cut…
Life is the search for the bandaid…
And we go to other people, councelers,
to help us deal with the past,
like spreading cream over a cut…
preventing an infection.
Everyone knows infections make problems worse.
We’ve all have relatives you don’t really know,
we’ve searched for a common grounds,
ANYTHING to end that awkward silience,
even though you are all aware,
that you are only joined by blood…
and what do you end up discussing?
… "good ‘ol times"
The fucking past.
Why?
That is the only thing they are sure about.
I fucking hate it.
I’m tired of living in the past,
tired of regretting everything…
getting worked up over shit I can’t change.
I know I’ve made mistakes…
maybe a few more than most,
I know I can’t run away from them,
but why do you always bring it up,
when I am trying to be happy?
I already think about it enough…
When I was little,
I got all kind of cuts and scrapes,
my mommy would get peroxide…
she would clean it out…
she would bandage it up…
and then I’d say,
"But mommy it still hurts…"
Every single fucking time she’d say,
"Well don’t think about the pain,
take your mind off of it, then it will feel better."
Well mom, I seem to have stumbled,
I seem to have fallen, and I’m pretty hurt…
*Where is my fucking bandaid now?*
------------------
Like anyone worthy, I am flattered by your fastination with me.
Like, any hot blooded women I have simply wanted an object to crave.
But you, you're not allowed, you're uninvited
"Instead of war on poverty, they got a war on drugs so the police can bother me..." --2pac
I, I wish I could swim, like dolphins, dolphins can swim, and nothing, nothing will keep us together, we can beat them, forever and ever, we can be heros, for just one day...
BY: BeF
It isn’t like I bruised my knee.. got a cut,
something that could be cured…
almost completely resolved,
with a fucking bandaid…
sure… I did lay there,
I was mentally bleeding for a while,
sure… I got back up,
but it wasn’t fucking easy.
It wasn’t easy enough to make me better,
there was no fucking bandaid - cure all.
That’s a joke.
And in my case…
ugly marks will scar me forever,
they won’t scab over,
they will not eventually disappear,
I only WISH I could manipulate the past…
but since I can’t,
I refuse to live there.
How can I prevent my cuts from infection?
Not with creams… that’s too easy…
I actually have to DEAL with this shit.
It’s like visiting relatives that you don’t even know…
I’ll have to organize my thoughts,
like trying to organize a conversation,
with these people… your family…
that you have no clue about.
I’m guessing everyone around me,
can see my utter confusion,
but I don’t think they want the truth.
When they find out I went through counceling,
they ask casually… like it’s not big deal,
"Why… what was wrong?"
That is the instance that assures me,
it tells me that everyone is fucked up inside,
just not everyone shows it.
Those people, they aren’t asking,
"Why were you there, I want to talk about it,
I want to make you feel better"…
they really don’t care much about me,
they are concerned about what is wrong,
simply to compare my misfortunes to their own…
The way they see it, if a normal girl,
raised in a good family… like me,
could end up going to counceling…
then anyone could…
including them….
But do they really want an answer?
They are asking me,
"AM I FUCKED UP, TOO!"
I’m guessing they get a little scared,
There’s nothing to be afraid of,
I am starting to enjoy being able,
to question things, and actually think.
In fact, I think I should thank these people,
the people that ask me what was wrong,
thank them for making me feel "sane"
Because we’ve all bruised our knees,
we’ve all gotten a cut…
Life is the search for the bandaid…
And we go to other people, councelers,
to help us deal with the past,
like spreading cream over a cut…
preventing an infection.
Everyone knows infections make problems worse.
We’ve all have relatives you don’t really know,
we’ve searched for a common grounds,
ANYTHING to end that awkward silience,
even though you are all aware,
that you are only joined by blood…
and what do you end up discussing?
… "good ‘ol times"
The fucking past.
Why?
That is the only thing they are sure about.
I fucking hate it.
I’m tired of living in the past,
tired of regretting everything…
getting worked up over shit I can’t change.
I know I’ve made mistakes…
maybe a few more than most,
I know I can’t run away from them,
but why do you always bring it up,
when I am trying to be happy?
I already think about it enough…
When I was little,
I got all kind of cuts and scrapes,
my mommy would get peroxide…
she would clean it out…
she would bandage it up…
and then I’d say,
"But mommy it still hurts…"
Every single fucking time she’d say,
"Well don’t think about the pain,
take your mind off of it, then it will feel better."
Well mom, I seem to have stumbled,
I seem to have fallen, and I’m pretty hurt…
*Where is my fucking bandaid now?*
------------------
Like anyone worthy, I am flattered by your fastination with me.
Like, any hot blooded women I have simply wanted an object to crave.
But you, you're not allowed, you're uninvited
"Instead of war on poverty, they got a war on drugs so the police can bother me..." --2pac
I, I wish I could swim, like dolphins, dolphins can swim, and nothing, nothing will keep us together, we can beat them, forever and ever, we can be heros, for just one day...
