Rant

reposted part of a contest entry. I wanted to delete the poem but keep the rant, so here ya go:

The problem is not what I thought, perhaps I had it all curdled inside of me, beating like a heart in the middle of a bleeding town. (And apparently I can’t help being fricking NOT poetic. So nobody understands.) Oh well. As I was saying, the problem is I found my life… in them. Nameless friends who should have probably never left an outline on my personal history. Bad luck. Had I thought smiles would be worse than knives, perhaps I would have been a murderer or something from the beginning. I kind of sympathize for Hitler, in fact. What if he wasn’t originally a bad man? I heard he had problems. Maybe a few “friends” too. It’s bad when all you want in life is some kind of a person you have chosen as role model, lover, teacher, son, and father. That’s what the first person was to me. And they leave as they come, hurting you with words, partings, and just about everything, leaving you without yourself. Even worse is it when they come closer than your clothes and even skin, like spoiled cats pleading for the affection they’ll give you back. That’s happened one too many times now. And all I remember is a game. A poem. A song not sung. And not the tears, but the laughter, and my sleepless nights when I have promised not to ever make a new real friend again. Thanks to the only one who stands, like a soldier in the middle of a dangerous battlefield. Maybe I should be inside Ward 19 after all. I either don’t deserve better or do deserve better than passers-by pretending to be friends. Thank you…