By: Jonathan Perez
Nothing is what I get to say,
but why would I talk if no one is listening?
It’s like I’m the outlet and they’re the charger,
but I can’t let them see what their excessive
plugging does to me.
So I paint a perfect peppy smiling face,
and forget their lies, their cries and cold embrace.
I’d give my life to make it go away,
constantly washing yet always feeling stained.
Is this my reward,
what I get in return?
Then I rather join the dead, than spend my time
with strangers, who I’ve worked up to be friends in my head.