, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Aimee Mann – Wise up

Not pretty, I’m not, get it into your head. Even if you think you can relate to me I’m that ogre that the big boys laugh at.

You’ve seen me. You’ve sneered at me. I’m scary looking but on further inspection (or just vapors leaking out of me,) you’ve begun to suspect that strong looking scary person is pathetic. Maybe it’s the mask that people can sense, that I wear because of the fear that has warped my brain.

I used to think I was a prophet. i could see into people’s souls. The ugly lying part and as I grew older, the empty denial part. The parts that hurt other people. Mostly children though, adults already tempered by the pain and lies.

I’m lost because all the cursing: “I hate your f^ck!ng guts”, “I hope you die”, “I want you to go to H3ll”, make no difference. The prophet’s eyes are empty. The pain isn’t soothed by curses. They solve nothing and never cause enough pain. By the time curses come, the damage is done. The lessons are futile. Any change won’t make a difference. And the perpetrators will not change.

Because in the long run, as a point in the Universe, it doesn’t matter. No one does. And it doesn’t matter.

And I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone. I don’t have to care. I grew up in that alien bubble being constantly pushed away, told to grow up, knowing no touch except the touch of the power hungry users. Being warped to want any touch. Being taught that touch was dirty and my want damned me to alienation.

Twisted, twist me, twisting in the wind I float around go down in my mind and spin. It’s still happening.