forbidden mutual understanding for a pretty boy

I hate nothing now like when someone calls me pretty.

It feels like they are mocking me.

Although I am a really confident man.

I have been loving how I look now for years.

But it’s just a feeling deep inside of me of hatred.

That it’s really repetitive.

You adore the bright candy wrapper.

For you to purchase and unwrap.

Put in your mouth feeling all kinds of flavors.

Up until you get a sudden hit of licorice.

Or the unbearable sweetness of butterscotch.

I am tired of being called pretty then strange and unusual.

To be followed by cruel or insane.

Maybe selfish too.

I never hurt anyone on purpose.

I never planned to leave.

It always happens it always comes to me.

Like a deal that has to be made.

I know that I am the issue as the problem lies inside of me.

In my behavior.

I never understand it or uncover it.

I cannot see it despite all my efforts to realize.

How can I be unique and unusual in my own way.

When I perceive myself as just normal.

How can I be cruel and unjust when I walk miles for everybody that crosses my way?

I am everyone’s best friend all of a sudden until they know me for who I am.

Just to be labeled as a troll’s spawn, or the devil himself.

Or even worse; to get underappreciated.

And I did absolutely nothing.

I just want someone to see me as I am.

Fuck my music, my poetry and hobbies.

I am not even that good.

All of my mentality, ideologies and opinion.

I want to be called normal, a fun company maybe.

As I am tired of being called crazy.

I won’t deny that I enjoyed it for quite some time now.

I adored being hard to understand like a riddle.

It made me feel like a real person.

That now I am completely exiled.

Alone.

And it feels like home, but the house has becoming really abandoned.

With the light inside of me setting.

Down the horizon waiting for its moment in the summertime.

A never-ending cycle of again and again and again.

I can’t break it as I fail and fail and fail.

And it just hurts to start all over every single time.

Learning nothing from each new beginning and ending.

And it hurts to see everyone so figured out.

By oneself and everybody else.

As it can never be me.

Don’t tell me that I am beautiful.

Pretty or insane.

The child is gone, and he wants now to be just real.

Call me brother, buddy or dude.

Love me for who I am.

Figure me out open me up.

Break my chains.

Unlock my cage.

That I am responsible of…