I´ve never fitted in.
Never, ever.
Not in this life.
Not yet.
I don´t try to fit in, never have, but sometimes
I´m forced to fit in.
There are times I´m bending.
These are those times I´m right in there,
not wanting to be there but still being part of something.
Making a living or at least fulfill the illusion of needing to make a living.
Talking to people, explaining myself to people, apologizing to people for things that happened just because it´s impossible to tell the truth.
These are usually the times I´m trying to destroy myself.
Self-sabotaging is what they call it.
The times when I´m on the tightrope, not knowing if I´ll fall again or finally can make it this time.
The times when I´m surrounded by empty bottles, surrounded by pain and fear.
The times when I´m not afraid to die but not being keen on living either.
The times when I paint and write the best stuff I´ve ever painted or written before.
The curse of the real artist.
The one that´s only waisting time
and lives from rhyme.
What would they give
to be kissed by a muse and be
besotted dayly by wine.
They all try to be or think so deep,
trying to turn their Ego dim.
Just when he can´t sleep,
no one wants to change places with him.
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