i can and i will

a diary, a book, a poem

look at me,
born as pure as a blank piece of paper.
and look at me now: i'm crinkled and full of cuts,
full of lies and crossed out words.
and non of those words are mine.
strangers wrote all over me.

i'm full of the traces others left on me,
between the lines you might read
that they treated me like they've been treated before,
so don't blame them for dealing with their pain
in an unhealthy, destructive way,
they never learned to do it differently.

from generation to generation,
you get this burden of tragedy,
wrapped like a nice present under the christmas tree.
you'll wear it with pride and predjudice,
it'll be heavy and smother you, until you panic and run away.
here comes the (bride with the) commitment issues.

9 months pregnant with this foul aftertaste,
the bad words left in your mouth: "love","promise","support",
burning on your tongue like the lies never did.
the truth is hard to swallow,
the knowledge that something isn't right
and not like it should be, chokes you,
but with the right drink everything washes down quickly.

in labour, shouting at the child you're bearing,
as if it's her fault, that she has her father's eyes,
that you once longingly looked into
like you saw a bright future in them.
the baby is born,
or should i say the product of something that nobody would dare to call love.
congrats, it's emotional instability!

for every kiss there is also a fist being placed on a face,
every nice word is worth nothing,
if it's shouted in an ear at night
instead of whispered the next morning.
there's nothing good or pure in this world,
everything we do is based on our own egoistic wishes and twisted perception,
everythig turns to shit at some point, no matter how beautiful it has been.

every blank page of every new notebook
will end up in unreadable scribbles about nothing,
dark ink will sink into the white pages
and turn innocence into something evil.
look at me, born as pure as an empty piece of paper.
and now i'm the diary of a dyfunctional family,
who could write a book about bad decisions
and this is a poem of pain.