Thinking yet not processing,
acting without reason—
I often ask myself:
What am I doing?
Must there be such impulsive behavior in me?
Animal I may be, but humans are the flawed.
Why do I act the way a pup would when playing with it's meek prey?
I catch myself being the monster that tortured me,
following in his footsteps,
as I break myself with this knowledge.
I know I can be loud,
obnoxious,
hurtful,
and just a plain old bitch.
I don't mean to be,
and I only have myself to blame.
I dress myself in this tough armor,
protecting a glass figure.
Harsh words trigger this impulse—
I'm sorry,
I'm too sensitive—
And my only protection is to fight back.
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𝗣𝗼𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗲 𝗔 𝗣𝗼𝗲𝗺
الشعرa collection of letters, poems, and short stories from deep within, a little addiction with it too; welcome to the emotions of the awkward teenage time we all once had.
