MASK OF MY DISGUISE

Knowledge is poison. The more you know the more you hurt, and the more you wish you did not know. As you keep feeding your curiosity, rummaging the possibilities, taking shots and chances at unveiling the veiled, it’s churning pain. Lighting your own fire to burn you up. But no, the soul always wants more, it’s like there’s a natural yearning for pain, you find pleasure in feeling some kind of pain. You want to have something to say when people tell their stories. But the stories are just turmoil masked in my disguise. You love it because that way you have something going on. In sobriety you’re enslaved to your own head and guilt, you become a part of something only when the limelights are all pointing in your direction. You want all the validity you wish for but shove of not to be seen as weak. Those are the days when you think you have your life figured out. Those are the days to go back to and re-live different but no, there’s just one life and you gambled your chances on narrow possibilities. Bravo! At least you tried. Most people don’t even try.

You didn’t really know, nobody knows so it’s fair! There’s no manual to life, everyone is doing what they do for survival. If that includes throwing me under a moving bus then, please! Feel free, it’s a worthy death to have your life worthwhile. I’d even do it willingly for a stranger I met at a coffee shelf in a supermarket or a bookstore exchanging old books for new.
I am too unfit to fit the descriptions you all give me. I’m still looking for myself.
I’m still looking up to myself.

I say this knowingly, hurting in the knowledge, the quench of my curiosity.
I have lived the two sides of the coin. I write with a smile, full of glee and shame, remorse and pride. But most of all with a burning desire to create an illusion.
I harvested hell in people planted safe-havens, and received rust from hands I greased while I imagined one good turn deserves another. So I believe that friendship is yet another fallacy. Ask my scars. My non-believe in friendship is stronger than my non-believe in the existence of kind hearts. I’ve been duped more than once by good friends in good times. If you happen to question me how I got my scars from good times and good friends.

Here:
Before I made scars I made memories, before memories I made friends, and friends are made of names. Now to erase names I make scars! The biggest lie I ever told people, is that I love them. No. I don’t even love myself enough to pour to anyone!
I want to laugh and cry at the same time but I prefer to scream. Silent screams. The volume of my silence is deafening. I’m just weary: but a million years will do me no good, I know because I cried. Neither would a million words,I know because I tried.
Don’t yearn for the detective job. I did, so bad I still dig deep and the deeper I go the harder it became to get out. Now am torn, insanity,sanity apart. Yet I still believe in revelations but I prefer I be gone, or dead under the bus you threw me for your survival. When the revelation starts to brighten the masks on the faces of the beloved!
Mask of my disguise!