Methodology

I can’t help but cloak myself in multimedia
to make up for what I can’t verbalize
because [the only way I have learned to express myself
is through other people’s descriptions of life.]
And maybe that’s more than a little wrong,
but I’ll make my excuses
the truth is they’ve written everything I couldn’t
and better than I could’ve tried.
I can feel the music thrumming through my every nerve,
taunting me as I try and fail to learn to play.
Believe me, I’m all too aware of my own weaknesses
and I might be the only one,
but I feel like you’re watching and I want to do my best
to appear perfect and worthy because
[at this moment you mean everything.]
I’m being honest with other people’s words
and, at times, they taste like lies,
with a metallic-like falseness,
you know I’m only golden plated.
Anything I reference hasn’t gone platinum,
so their obscurity helps me hide,
but it’s when I’m alone that they call me like the sailors to sirens,
whispering, [I want to have control;
I want a perfect body, I want a perfect soul;
I want you to notice when I’m not around.]
I can feel their breath on the back of my neck -
I can recite the words, feel them on my tongue,
make them my own – you’d never know the difference.
If I’m honest I’m not clever, these words aren’t borrowed,
I know them with unusual certainty
because I breathe them, think them everyday
but they get lost between the constantly replaying
[I just want to feel alive for the first time in my life,
I just want to feel attractive today.]
And, if you were paying attention,
you’d notice my hesitation and lack of control
over every word that isn’t actually mine.