Would you ignore it, if you had a burning hole in your heart?
If you had a missing limb, a deep cut, a bruising lump?
You'd scream and cry and shout until you were blue in the face.
Then you'd be worried about the discolouration; blue was never your colour.
Who speaks up, when they have the slashes littering their lives, but they aren't visible?
Who will believe the angst, aggravation and animosities that they spin?
You'll give bandages, medicines, fuck, even operations to those who are making a noise, those who are bleeding out in front of you.
Because you too, want the world to shut up every now and then. You'll help in any way you can, even if it means using your own supply of plasters.
Radio silence, white noise, tinkering laughter, unabashed shouting, hysterical sobs.
Where is the balance?
Take me out of this situation and make me an outsider. I need my own way of communication, cut my telephone wires and my ability to hold a pen.
How do you tell anyone about this?
Sat so small, your life hanging in the hands of a specialist.
No one can help you properly, and you know this; so why put so much hope into something so futile?
How do you take this thing you have inside you, this poisonous, infectious disease, and pass the torch onto an unknowing victim? A trained professional?
No matter the fallout, you're slowly destroying everything in your path.
Cut my heartstrings while you're at it with your scissors.
What position do they hold in me, if they're useless too?
I've always been afraid of that word.
Cowering in the shadow of a personality trait I own; a fool.
Funnily enough, the word has become a regular part of my vocabulary.
Useless, useless, useless.
As someone who spends their life trying to expand their vocabulary, this isn't how I ever wanted things to turn out.
They say curiosity killed the cat. Maybe it was the repetition of people worrying over a damn cat anyway.
Repetition leads to competition which causes defeat.
Isn't it inevitable?
How can you unlearn the grand art of uselessness?
Surely if I'm so easy to tear up, this part of me should be easy to rip away, too? That is curious, never mind the cat-killing.
Every damn day I tell myself I'm not good enough; I let the good parts of me disappear.
Why is it different for the bad ones?
It should be a harmless exercise.
Uselessness is a deep-rooted manifestation inside me that, no matter how many times I puncture it, won't stop occupying my subconscious.
Typical me, being a typical pessimistic hypocrite.
Hypocrisy killed this cat.
Uselessness is forever married to me. Bounded by other strings that I haven't brought myself to pull away from yet.
This of course, begs the question; do I really want them gone if they're wound up so tightly?
The answer should present itself to you.
I'm tied up by shackles, and I want out.
The ropes are in the way, a mess of shit that I don't have the heart to deal with.
I cut those strings a long time ago, remember?
So for now, I'll stay put. My never-ending cycle of self doubt and worthless attitude.
A hoarder with a drawer abundant with miscellaneous wires that I'm not able to cut.
It'll happen one day, I'll cut the wires but I won't stop there.
When that day comes, you'll see me screaming, along with all those others sat in your waiting room.