In search of that line
My indignant anger is once again forced into confinement, this time for the "sake" of others. I've been told, "Be part of the solution not the problem." One of those sayings from my father, and we know how those turn out, but it is also a sentiment echoed by many others. However, now I'm being told not to vocalize my issues with others because they're "too negative" and that people don't like my criticism because "it isn't nice." They take issue with my issues and seek not to solve it for that would require effort, but to mask it like a rug over a stain. Out of sight out of mind, unfortunately some of us can't forget what we have once seen.
Please allow me to lock myself in a dark room because the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few; my surroundings should coincide with my feelings. Let me be apologetic for pointing out your weak areas so that one might improve. Obviously you have previously identified such areas and in your great wisdom decided ignoring it to be the best course of action. Let me give you this sharpened blade so that you might dull it as you would my wit, even though a dull blade is the most dangerous. Don't ask me to stop being who I am, just buy my silence.
With my tongue seemingly so clipped my soapbox shall become nothing more than a platform to hand out pamphlets. Perhaps the writing will be a cathexis for my anger. Emotional turmoil swept under a rug, a facade covering another stain.
When two plates collide one of them does not resign itself to doom and plunge head first into a molten hell without a fight. So I ask you, when our faults converge where will the fault line be?
Please allow me to lock myself in a dark room because the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few; my surroundings should coincide with my feelings. Let me be apologetic for pointing out your weak areas so that one might improve. Obviously you have previously identified such areas and in your great wisdom decided ignoring it to be the best course of action. Let me give you this sharpened blade so that you might dull it as you would my wit, even though a dull blade is the most dangerous. Don't ask me to stop being who I am, just buy my silence.
With my tongue seemingly so clipped my soapbox shall become nothing more than a platform to hand out pamphlets. Perhaps the writing will be a cathexis for my anger. Emotional turmoil swept under a rug, a facade covering another stain.
When two plates collide one of them does not resign itself to doom and plunge head first into a molten hell without a fight. So I ask you, when our faults converge where will the fault line be?