When You Hold People Up For Ridicule,

And What If In The Future We're At War Again, Or We Still Haven't Elected A Non-white Or Non-male President, Or The Rolling Stones Are Still Dragging Their Tired Old Butts On Stage? That Would Depress Me Way Too Much.

Like Driving Along A Bumpy Road And Losing Control Of The Steering Wheel, Tossing You—just A Tad—off The Road. The Wheels Kick Up Some Dirt, But You're Able To Pull It Back. Yet No Matter How Hard You Try To Drive Straight, Something Keeps Jerking You To The Side. You Have So Little Control Over Anything Anymore. And At Some Point, The Struggle Becomes Too Much—too Tiring—and You Consider Letting Go. Allowing Tragedy... Or Whatever... To Happen.

Watching Those Guys Pummel Each Other So No One Would Suspect Them Of Being Weak Was Too Much For Me. Their Reputations Were More Important Than Their Faces.

I Hate Not Knowing What To Believe Anymore. I Hate Not Knowing What's Real.

You Told Me I Wrote That Poem Because I Was Afraid Of Dealing With Myself. And I Used My Mom As An Excuse, Accusing Her Of Not Appreciating Or Accepting Me, When I Should Have Been Saying Those Words Into A Mirror.