Why is it that I write poetry, but cant relate those around me?
Maybe I can’t show the real person behind the facade.
Why am I still called a child when I am expected to make adult decisions?
Maybe they don’t think I’m ready, not capable of being up to the mark.
Why do people believe what they want to, whether real or a fantasy?
Perhaps the deceit is more appealing, reality more deceiving.
Why can’t people say what they really think instead of candy coated lies?
Perhaps they don’t want to crack their delicate self esteem, stop it bleeding.
Why do you pretend to be my friend when all along you want make an example of me?
Maybe your just in it for the ride, see where the freak show ends up.
Why are you only good to me when there’s no one to see?
Maybe your embarrassed, ashamed to know me, makes me sick to my gut.
Why can’t I fix it all, make it all better for everyone?
Because I’m not strong enough
Why is there so much anger behind the smile?
The answer will come in it’s own time.
