Living in the shadows.
It is a life of hate, anger, disgust.
Watching them be better.
It is a life of rage, frustration and hurt.
Not being enough
A stake, to the soul
The perfect poison for your heart,
The perfect poison for your sanity.
Doing your life's best,
and not being enough,
Forever a dissapointment.
My life is black,
their praise are lies,
How dare they!
To my face, they say with a smirk, "that was amazing"...
they never do add the 'but'.
He is the only guy who make me laugh while making me angry
He is the one who made me relate the word love and crazy
He is the only guy I love while hating;
He is the only guy I miss while talking.
I don't get this feelings but
If this is not love, I don't what it is.
In your anger be not just,
Lest your anger turn to dust;
Anger will make easy yet
The bitter footfalls of regret.
They have chiseled on my stone the words:
“His life was gentle, and the elements so mixed in him
That nature might stand up and say to all the world,
This was a man.”
Those who knew me smile
As they read this empty rhetoric.
My epitaph should have been:
“Life was not gentle to him,
And the elements so mixed in him
That he made warfare on life
In the which he was slain.”
While I lived I could not cope with slanderous tongues,
Now that I am dead I must submit to an epitaph
Graven by a fool!
Were you not ashamed, fellow citizens,
When my estate was probated and everyone knew
How small a fortune I left?—
You who hounded me in life,
To give, give, give to the churches, to the poor,
To the village!—me who had already given much.
And think you not I did not know
That the pipe-organ, which I gave to the church,
Played its christening songs when Deacon Rhodes,
Who broke and all but ruined me,
Worshipped for the first time after his acquittal?
Rhodes’ slave! Selling shoes and gingham,
Flour and bacon, overalls, clothing, all day long
For fourteen hours a day for three hundred and thirteen days
For more than twenty years.
Saying “Yes’m” and “Yes, sir”, and “Thank you”
A thousand times a day, and all for fifty dollars a month.
Living in this stinking room in the rattle-trap “Commercial.”
And compelled to go to Sunday School, and to listen
To the Rev. Abner Peet one hundred and four times a year
For more than an hour at a time,
Because Thomas Rhodes ran the church
As well as the store and the bank.
So while I was tying my neck-tie that morning
I suddenly saw myself in the glass:
My hair all gray, my face like a sodden pie.
For love he offered me his perfect world.
This world was so constricted, and so small,
It had no sort of loveliness at all,
And I flung back the little silly ball.
At that cold moralist I hotly hurled,
His perfect pure symmetrical small world.