No Safe Space

I often think that there is no safe space for people like me.
if only I was what I once wanted to be.
when I was a kid, vivacious and full of energy
when my thoughts and actions were in a constant state of synergy.
but now, I’m trembling hands, creating chaos,
fighting my way against the whims of the cosmos.
I am a culmination of the missed chances I walked by,
I was too hung up on some things that I decided to not even try.
overtime, I became the overlooked pattern adorning the wallpaper,
granules of pepper filled in the explicitly labeled salt shaker.
the quiet presence in the house, that seldom is felt,
writing crappy poetry in a corner, without an iota of regret.
my rage and anguish are domestic, I sharpen them every night,
in the shadow of my own figure, tucking them away until they’re hidden from light.
I claim that my blood is darker than any wine ever brewed,
that my soul is tainted and my heart is shrewd.
my lips spin a yarn – forging a fictitious narrative,
well, what can I say? I have always been supremely creative.
some days, it’s easier to lie than to face the truth,
isn’t that the biggest conundrum of the youth?
to spill the tea or hide the whole cup,
to try and be vulnerable or resort to armoring up?
so, I give it my all, I do my best,
I cope the way no one ever expects.
restraint and I are strangers, yet, always strung up on call,
anything that isn’t everything feels like it’s nothing at all.
my garden is overgrown with a multitude of weed, I overeat, I oversleep,
god, it’s a vicious cycle of eat, sleep repeat!
I’m waiting for something better, letting go of something worse,
trying to find solace for my soul, trying to break this curse.
I’ve leant not to let it mess with my head, you see?
maybe, there is just no safe space for people like me.