All About Convenience


Like the rusty taste of blood,
Caught in the back of your throat.
Or the way you feel cold,
Like stone,
After a storm.
And all you wish,
All you hope,
Is for one more touch.
One more breeze,
One more kiss.
And you take a look in the mirror,
Almost laugh at the sight…
So sad.
You try to smile,
But it comes out all wrong.
It’s always been wrong.
Only now you’re realizing it.
This is why you haven’t been hugged in months,
Touched in days.
A small laugh inside,
Or maybe a tear falling down your cheek.
It’s all the same now.
Feeling…
Isn’t quite believing anymore.
Tired of the fascade,
You fall behind the crowd.
What’s the point in trying anymore?
Is there any reason to try to impress?
Was there ever a time,
When you cried for joy,
Over one of your lies?
And the dust settles,
In your eye.
Don’t believe it’s there,
Don’t have to believe.
And that tear on your cheek,
Or giggle in your heart,
Become one,
And add to nothing.
You’ll rise again tomorrow,
Forget tonite.
And pick out ugly clothes,
Because no one else has them.
And wear them,
Feeling all pretty,
Until you see the mirror,
Once more…
Maybe it won’t be the same.
Maybe tomorrow you’ll remember,
Or it’ll be different.
You’ll put on your makeup,
Hide your true self from the world.
Not hard to do,
They think seeing is believing.
And smile as you pass,
And hope others are smiling too…
When inside everyone is laughing
At the ridiculous notion,
That everyone is “okay.”
The truth is “okay” doesn’t have a meaning.
Or it skips around…
For you it’s good,
Or maybe for you it cuts…
Either way no one really cares.
No one really tries to find the truth about you.
If there is a truth.
And some claim to know you,
Better than you know yourself.
They can predict actions,
And they can believe the actions are you…
But even fools know better than that.
The outward appearance doesn’t mean much,
Anymore.
It’s not the way you carry yourself,
Or what you wear,
But the pain inside you,
That everyone can see,
Can feel.
Though they chose not to,
Because surface appearances
Take so much less time to understand,
Than do real feelings.
And we’re all about convenience.

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