clean this up
change this part here,
make this part
make this part different
it's too messy
just clean it up a little
cut and paste
scissors doing their
while i take out the face paint
and draw on the smile that the
magazine told me
would look better on me than the shape my lips formed as they
made way for the
"where am i in all of this noise?"
i may look better to you, i may sound better,
i may be carefully creased at the edges,
but my mind is gone,
where'd i put it?
i don't know where i am in all of this
i was never meant to be boxed up i guess.
i liked it better messy,
i knew myself in messy,
and even when i let the scissors
do their scissoring job
i'm still down here looking up, hearing footsteps on the ground above thinking
"i wanna be up there too"
because i'm not that tidy.
i'm not folded,
and if the words flow better messy?
i am messy
i am incoherent sometimes
sometimes my face breaks out
sometimes i make no sense
sometimes i sit in front of empty pages like this one was and have no idea what i'm doing, and doubt myself and everything
they invited me to the party, but i hear they have a
they have a dress code,
and i'm sorry but if that's the case?
if that's the case i guess i can't come
because if i come,
i do not come to the party with perfect skin and clothes,
i come wounded,
and i'm not gonna hide the place where the bullets found me
where the words,
because underneath the noise
the velvet words,
they're all limping too.