Writing

my leg is a rotting log and i am stumps

i am stumps which are crawling with the little maggots

the little white slimy maggots which are crawling under my skin

Do I know the subtle, the shallow things in life? 

Or is it merely my destiny forever to be seeking 

That which is not ours to see?

At parties I sit quiet and calculate my words

I avoid the eyes of guys and stare at my phone. 

After all that hiding, 

dissatisfaction feels like heartburn, 

Protest after protest,

chant after chant. 

I watch and listen

as people continuously fight for their rights.

But the fighting should’ve been over

on July 4th, 1776

when it was declared that

I get it, you have it worse,

I get it, you're in pain,

I get it, I don't matter,

Not to you, anyway.

So when you call my name,

I shall fast come running,

Leave myself behind,

Even as I'm losing time.

I'm tired of the yelling,

I just wish that it would stop.

And I'm tired of the lectures, 

Saying all I am is wrong.

I’m tired of the bruises,

And these voices in my head.