I wonder, I wonder if the world can see the pain in my eyes.
My smile torn from my face, it's been stolen by the violence of love.
Empty seats surround me.
I am in a room full of souls, 200.
But aren't we all alone in a world full of souls, 8 billion?
The concoction of voices, souls crying to be liked.
Each in the suit of somebody else.
Someone they met, maybe on the street or in the market.
Inspired by a character they want to be or imitating a soft voice they enjoyed to hear.
But I don't want to do that, I want to be me.
So I guess society won't like me for me.
I won't dress to impress, I will dress to express.
I won't speak sweet nothings, I will speak only when I have something.. To say.
I won't hide my soul,
I won't let this world steal my creativity.
Five year old Tommy was told that he can't paint things that offend others.
Little did Mrs Smith know that it was the only way he could relieve the pain in his chest, Advil.
25, Tommy is torn apart and broken.
The black rings of sleepless nights engulf his eyes,
The blade marks like tattoos on his skin.
Whilst he carries in his beat up chest the burden of the world's offence, just because he can't express.
I will write,
Some days I will cry,
Other days I will nostalgically turn back the time in my mind in memory of the days that I loved but hate to remember.
The pain will plough through my veins, I know.
I have come to realise that love isn't for me, even from the godly.
Because the only way to be loved in this superficial world, is for me to be who someone else wants me to be.
Don't tick me, I am not a checklist.
So in search of love, the world can be someone else,
But I, I was never born an actress.