Thoughts

They told me to smile,
I asked what for?

They told me to be happy,
yet I'm passed out on the floor.

Should I wear a mask
and conceal my soul.

When will I get back to my feet
instead of wasting in this hole?

They told me to stand up
and make myself heard,
but I'm too wasted to walk,
laying here like a cross on the curb.

I'll make my own decisions
with clay held in my hands,
mould my life as my own,
not one that stems from demands.

I'm no flower, no rose,
more of a thorn for pain
than any beauty could purpose.

How can they tell me
how to live
when death is only of the flesh;
what if you could find a way
to remain a thought, nothing less?

So if I can leave these words
here on earth,
then maybe when I'm gone
the world will still remember me
for whatever I'm worth.