But I'm Not

But I'm Not


People think I'm smart, intelligent, outstanding.
Three traits I believe I am not.
People think I have my life put together, that I'm living my dream.
But I'm not.


I'm screaming in my pillow, crying myself to sleep.
I'm shouting without words, reaching to my peak
because if I dare say anything,
then my life crumbles like burnt ashes in the wind.


Though I don't rise up like a phoenix
I don't carry the elegance of my wings,
I disallow myself to feel it
Even in the joy it may bring.


I hide away in my bedroom, playing games or playing the piano.
I hide away in the cubby of my room, hiding just like a shadow,
my safe place, hoping that life straightens like the strings of my guitars.
Yet they never seem to do.


I cry, scream and shout.
I laugh, smile and pout.
I hide away, covering my face with a façade,
a mask of someone I am not.


Everyone believes they know me.
The quiet kid. The smart kid. The kid who focuses in class.
But I got one acronym to describe myself.


-Wreck-less
-Elaborative
-Irritating
-Ridiculous
-Disorientating


The insides of my shell, all reeks of weird
For as people resemble themselves as the bright, spherical pearl
That glimmers when the light beholds it in the perfect spot
But mine does not.


But I stay up late at night, reading, listening to music,
or lying in bed in silence wanting my life to be over - or for it to finally begin.
I read books of those who lived. I listen to those who have suffered.
And I lie in bed in silence, letting my thoughts wonder as tears creep to the edges of my eye lids and down the very cheek I pronounce with.


I'm screaming in my pillow, crying myself to sleep.
I'm shouting without words, reaching to my peak
because if I dare say anything truthful,
then my life crumbles like layers on a cake.
Yet I'm not as sweet, and not as tasteful.


I may seem energetic.
I may seem enthusiastic.
And I may be seen as eccentric.
But no-one knows me. And nor do I.


As I lie here on my very bed, that I now feel discomfort
thinking of everything and anything and trying to convert or to conform
a thought is almost constant.
It's like goosebumps on my skin,
And pricks around my finger


I attempt to shut it out,
I really try to,
I supress my thoughts into a glum, crumble of itself
I supress my emotions, my esteem, and my bitter health.


I force myself to collude with others,
To conform to what society favours
To disallow myself of my liabilities,
And to hide my foreign identity


Everyone thinks I have my life put together.          
That I am "Mr perfect" and a brilliant scholar,
But I'm sorry to say,          
I am not.