‘You’re making it about you’

I am the drama in my own head

My eras

Hand prints and finger tips

that wanted to stretch for miles

Having a tantrum hard for you

Because I was your child

Individuating because I didn’t

often see me

But, me was the one to be made

fun of

Too excited, too much

Inside, too frightened

I noticed everyone else’s pain

But, nobody could see

(who I was)

Aside from, I was ‘difficult’ and ‘blunt’

‘Too much’ and ordinary

That’s what I showed you

I wanted spectacular

I saw the universe like

a flicking-paint artwork

But it was never my brush

I couldn’t get in touch with

myself or my body

Hating it

Looking for moments, as an

adult, where I, numbly,

dipped in

Read, living - outside - myself

I felt like the power in my

romanticising

But believed I was the sin

The juxtaposition of two worlds

The world felt cruel around me

I’m probably ‘making myself

a victim’ by writing these words

The gut punch of care

but, what I saw, as no adoration

Wanted to be free to be a superstar!

Felt I wanted to be seen

and deeply loved -

and heard

A wall being built

with bricks

and barbed wire spikes offered

I gave you them

and told you it was ok

I gave you throwing stars

to diminish my sparkle

Then cried after inviting you

to leave

I showed you I was unlovable

Then cried, as you went on your way

Stroppy and difficult

I had ‘difficulties’ with men

I stomped my feet, acted aloof

and was defensive

Could it be that I was astute, no?

Performance and self-loathing

had, long since, set in

It was never OK

Couldn’t be there

Couldn’t do it

I let everyone down

Made friends and then seemed

to abandon them

But I left my own streets empty

Because it was easier

And lonelier, to clean up

a vacant, meaningless, town

Vacant and spacey

No one saw me for who I was

All bubbles and overflowing excitement

Under the covers, devastated, after attracting attention

Because I never had self love

Women were deserving, though

Absorbed in others

and passive aggressive for those

I wasn’t myself with

A woman

with too much / no care

A woman

who was never there

A human

who never lived

I wanted to live in London

but I didn’t connect, externally,

with London’s sparks

It was a lonely love of London

A misfit, you could call me,

with bags for eyes, solo

Talking about her love

for St. James’ park

I lied when I let you down

I felt pressure

That I grew in layers

and didn’t know how to park

Were into the early thirties, now,

and moments of pure joy

But can’t absorb information

Or do much on many, many days

Blame me please, hate myself

for the common sense, I was told

I never had,

when it departs

There is still so much more of an adventure

to go on

Feeling and releasing all that pain

Yes, I make it about me

But, these are my eras

I made it about me, superficially

Clicking in will bring less shame

..

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Music - R Kelly