Every now and then I feel like no one knows how I feel.
No one that is.
No one as in person.
But there is a way to describe how I feel -- and not in a textural sense.
Rust.
That's the best way to describe me -- rust.
Okay, so I'm not saying that my skin is very reddish orange and feels like metal sandpaper... no, indeed that would be crazy...
No, what I'm saying is that, I'm like rust.
Rust is something that I find beautiful. It is something that is burned and weathered by the elements around it, creating its harsh, coloured texture. Ultimately it is weak and isn't always appreciated.
The thing is, I feel like rust sometimes.
I can look beautiful... or I can be different colours that some find intriguing, but ultimately, I can be harsh. I can be weak and unappreciated.
My defective character or the fact that I am socially inept, (or something of the like) is the only reason I can explain these jaded, rough edges, carved away by the world around me -- these situations, these trials, these people that I meet.
At first, my rough surface is just that -- the wear and tear has only affected the outmost appearance. But eventually, it digs itself deep into my core, and I become brittle, ready to crack, break and cry -- a shattered pile on the floor.
Eventually, the Good Mechanic repairs me... when I've decided that it's no longer possible to maintain the fragile state that the rust finds itself in
Sometimes, I feel like rust.
No one that is.
No one as in person.
But there is a way to describe how I feel -- and not in a textural sense.
Rust.
That's the best way to describe me -- rust.
Okay, so I'm not saying that my skin is very reddish orange and feels like metal sandpaper... no, indeed that would be crazy...
No, what I'm saying is that, I'm like rust.
Rust is something that I find beautiful. It is something that is burned and weathered by the elements around it, creating its harsh, coloured texture. Ultimately it is weak and isn't always appreciated.
The thing is, I feel like rust sometimes.
I can look beautiful... or I can be different colours that some find intriguing, but ultimately, I can be harsh. I can be weak and unappreciated.
My defective character or the fact that I am socially inept, (or something of the like) is the only reason I can explain these jaded, rough edges, carved away by the world around me -- these situations, these trials, these people that I meet.
At first, my rough surface is just that -- the wear and tear has only affected the outmost appearance. But eventually, it digs itself deep into my core, and I become brittle, ready to crack, break and cry -- a shattered pile on the floor.
Eventually, the Good Mechanic repairs me... when I've decided that it's no longer possible to maintain the fragile state that the rust finds itself in
Sometimes, I feel like rust.
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