What am I doing? I don’t know.
Who I am, who I want to be - I know what I should be, what I need to be.
I keep my secrets locked tight; they don’t belong here.
I fold my persona close, the world won’t hold it.
I push myself in a cycle: work all day, work all night - do everything, do it right.
No time for fun - only the work. Is that the only way to live?
I wake with nothing to look forward to, drag myself out of bed. School - that’s how this world works.
At school I’m with friends; we stick and chatter. Then silence comes - again. I tally everything that needs to be done, search for time for fun, find none.
Home should bring relief, but a heavy weight falls. I stay quiet. Sometimes I speak - it never ends well. I’m always wrong, aren’t I? Sorry. My words don’t feel real. If I stay quiet I’m still wrong. Sorry.
Practice calls - I go. It makes Father happy.
School isn’t the priority here, apparently, but don’t we need it to live?
Art isn’t a job, I’ve been told - it’s engraved in my head. Find something that pays high; nothing I love does. If it makes money, isn’t that enough?
Maybe tonight I’ll read - no, I can’t. More work to do. Sorry - I forgot: it isn’t work to you. It doesn’t make money. Just like my hobby. Sorry.
