One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,
Yet the prize knows she is the opposite of leisure.
Not even her own salt soaked pupils
Can teach that people get better.
Might as well be in the dump,
The morgue for those who surrender
Because this isn’t a battle,
The enemy isn’t the illness-
It’s the knowledge of inspiration that
I am fighting my own wills.
I let it get to me because I know my suffering
Will inscribe these words and use all its force for temporary meaning
And when the inks gone, it’s so long
The drainage leaves me empty
With no meaning and no dreaming
Of a better life- so away you may send me
‘Welcome to the world my friend, now clean up and get over it
Everyone can hear your screams, so could you try and keep it down a bit?
We’re trying to live our lives, but you’re disrupting our silence
No peace-just quiet, all minds are violent.
It’s just an error we’re all built with
Teenage life is suicidal, anxious and depressed.
But we can do nothing about it, so let’s move on and give it a rest.’
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
And we’re all consumed by deadly melancholy.
And that murderer is my desperations measure.
I love the consumption of my brain and my senses
Tickles my vocabulary, nothing tenses
Except the past and the present
I didn’t deserve the opportunities granted
And a future-hence if ever.
Because what’s given to me, is better off as a countermeasure.
But I’ve forgotten about the one in whose eyes I am treasure.
Who refuses to accept why I am in fact trash
I hold all this useless shit inside of me, which is waste but not going to waste
Because sometimes trash is just trash, and will always be it
Nobody wants rotten refuge, be it what I contain or myself the container.
One man’s trash is not always another’s treasure.
Because sometimes that is pressure. Being labelled as ‘High Quality’
Doesn’t change the fact it’s second-hand and has been repaired
And restored countless times over.
Broken and reassembled, given a fresh coat of paint.
The can has been emptied once or twice,
But no matter how many times it has been replaced
It will always give the atmosphere a sour taste.
And its contents will go in as shells and peeling,
Things unwanted will be left to rot inside because they’re unappealing
And with time break down, fall down, collapse into slime
And be left all slurred
Each passing day a blur
Nothing to decide.
Not smooth, not clumpy. Absent, and god help me
For wanting to feel something, sadness is my happy
Because it’s reassurance that I still feel something.
Yes everything inside me is vile and disgusting
But f*cking hell does it make me happy to know it’s not nothing…
Because one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
And in this world, emptiness is a tremor.