Bad

Writing

I’ve taken time to get to know who I am over the years; I’ve come to the conclusion that I hate a lot of things about myself. I’m vengeful and enjoy watching people suffer from distraught and agony sometimes, why? Because I secretly want to make people feel like they’re worthless. Sometimes I wake up and wonder if I’ve fed my soul enough to be satisfied and then I begin to think about all of bad times I’ve been through.

Over-thinking telling myself I won’t make it.

I’ve done enough to cover up the real me, flirting with the demons to fit in with all of my friends. I got tired of trying so I’ll give in: I carry around a few stories to mask the pain. Find the sincerity within me and tell me take off my cool, tell me that I’ve gone missing.

Do you remember the old me? I’ve remembered you. I’m a few sentences short of painting a gallery full of pictures worth a thousand words.

I find myself looking into mirrors and wondering who I am. I’m just another kid trying to grow up, but that’s just another excuse I use to make myself feel better about being so immature and irresponsible.

I’m tired of making excuses for my mistake. Why do I make excuses for myself? I just don’t want to finally tell myself that I’m not worth the time people put into me.

I’m lost and I’m stumbling along to find my way and pick myself up out of the depths of distress and panic.

I’ve never been absorbed in sin, but I’ve never disobeyed the simple rules of life.

I’m only a bad person because of the actions and choices I’ve made. I’ve made few choices that have been constructive for me. Yet I can’t complain this is the life I’ve given myself.

 

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