I only know myself as undeservingly ugly.
And my self-pity, I'm convinced, is going to be the death of me.
One day it'll steal away my air supply,
Or stick me in between two boulders closing in on me.
I value everything I see in others and am sickened at the sight of myself.
My intelligence isn't rare or individual... its mostly from experiences that others have forced onto me.
My beauty isn't exquisite or even simple... its plain and if at all there hidden behind a galaxy of shadows.
Ideas of what I want to be and have no chance of becoming.
And now I am back again to this feeling of exhaustion.
The tiresome emotion of being disgusted with one self.
If only I belonged to something, perhaps then I'd have atleast the smallest bit of satisfaction.
Belonged to another person, another heart, if only my hand could once again fit into another's.
I doubt on days such as this that I even belong to my own existance.
It seems to dominate me more than I dominate it.
My life runs itself, just as my schedule runs itself and I, the person, the one who should make it all happen is more like a pawn who is forced to play along.
I am as drained as a depressed soul could be, yet somehow I manage to drive myself out of bed each and every day,but never to do anything that makes me feel alive.
Never to do anything that could bring any emotion into me.
Smiles, tears, even a touch... its almost as though its something else living through me. Maybe someone else.
Because I, as myself, as the woman I consider myself to be, doesn't know what my daily existance lives through.
If it were that way, then I should have some respect for myself.
Because the way I watch my life lived is wonderful.
Surrounded by such caring people, who I know have unlimited amounts of respect for me.
Who I know adore the way I do things.
And follow the guidance I give them, and trust the things I tell them, so why I can't help but ask myself do I not feel any of things that others make so clear are apparent in me.
The only way I know myself is as undeservingly ugly.
And my self-pity, I'm convinced, is going to be the death of me.
One day it'll steal away my air supply,
Or stick me in between two boulders closing in on me.
I value everything I see in others and am sickened at the sight of myself.
My intelligence isn't rare or individual... its mostly from experiences that others have forced onto me.
My beauty isn't exquisite or even simple... its plain and if at all there hidden behind a galaxy of shadows.
Ideas of what I want to be and have no chance of becoming.
And now I am back again to this feeling of exhaustion.
The tiresome emotion of being disgusted with one self.
If only I belonged to something, perhaps then I'd have atleast the smallest bit of satisfaction.
Belonged to another person, another heart, if only my hand could once again fit into another's.
I doubt on days such as this that I even belong to my own existance.
It seems to dominate me more than I dominate it.
My life runs itself, just as my schedule runs itself and I, the person, the one who should make it all happen is more like a pawn who is forced to play along.
I am as drained as a depressed soul could be, yet somehow I manage to drive myself out of bed each and every day,but never to do anything that makes me feel alive.
Never to do anything that could bring any emotion into me.
Smiles, tears, even a touch... its almost as though its something else living through me. Maybe someone else.
Because I, as myself, as the woman I consider myself to be, doesn't know what my daily existance lives through.
If it were that way, then I should have some respect for myself.
Because the way I watch my life lived is wonderful.
Surrounded by such caring people, who I know have unlimited amounts of respect for me.
Who I know adore the way I do things.
And follow the guidance I give them, and trust the things I tell them, so why I can't help but ask myself do I not feel any of things that others make so clear are apparent in me.
The only way I know myself is as undeservingly ugly.
