When there's nothing left to say

I was always told that I was lucky,
that I never had to worry.
They said that He got the “shitty end of the deal”, not I.
Do they even know me?
Do they know what I’ve been through?

Pain has been etched into my veins
and it flows like crimson, to fuel its only purpose:
the inconsolable heart.
From there, this Weak muscle pumps,
and keeps me alive so I can dwell on one thing, bitch at another.

But does it even matter?
Sometimes I just feel like I’m wasting my time,
drawing circles around circles, only to find that these Training Circles
go nowhere but round and I’m left in run-ons, with nowhere to go but round.
Could it be any easier? Could it be any harder, anymore pointless?

It’s like watching a movie of my life,
totally out of control, watching someone play my role half-assed.
Could you put some heart in to it, please?
And when I’m finally walking out on this B-movie, which way should I go?
It’s always tug-o-war, but even when I’m the center of the focus, I feel left out.

Nobody really wants you there, do they?
They use you and abuse you, take you for every ride, every meal ticket,
and then dump you at the door the second someone else comes knocking.
“Don’t have fair-weather friends.” But they’re everywhere, are they not?
They’re you and me, him and her, they’re everywhere and you can’t escape.

Betrayal, backstabbing, lies, the agony of defeat, poverty, embarrassment,
knowing that no matter what you do, you can never rise above this or escape;
the inevitability of knowing that you’ll never be anything more than poor...
It’s limiting, it’s overwhelming; it’s enough to make you ill.
And they say I don’t know pain.

It’s etched in to my veins
just as much as the mud is stained on my face.
Keep knocking me to the ground.
And even though you hurt my feelings,
I’ve got to get back up.