Sometimes I read what I wrote
and my mind makes a mental note
of how much I dislike my tone.
It’s as if I can’t see my zone;
hoping someone will throw me a bone;
yet that’s not how I’ll find my throne.
I read myself and I hate myself;
I don’t trust my vision or myself.
My beliefs seem to contradict the self;
it seems impossible to understand the self.
I don’t know what’s real;
I just don’t enjoy how I feel.
Lost trying to make it clear;
wanting to find something dear;
in a field where it won’t appear;
filled with illusions waiting to disappear.
I write this, and I hate it;
but I write it because I feel it.
I say it because I mean it;
I love myself, but I hate myself; I feel it.