A ceiling fan. It uses it sharp blades to spin.

Thats how my mind feels going in circles

drinking shitty gin.

 

The current streaming north with rocks it was often peaceful.

Looking at my parents with my high eyes, they knew I was deceitful.

 

Words hurt. I guard my heart with knight and armour. 

But do you think before you speak? Wiping my tears 

with my bad posture.

 

If I speak up, they say Im disrespectful, which isnt true.

Respect goes both ways, hiding in my room honestly I'm through.

 

Smoking so I dont remember why I'm sad, its a love and hate thing.

My anixety gets the best out of me. It's like a bee it stings.

 

Eating the problems away, stuffing food in my mouth like a squirrel.

My face in the toilet a tear drops from my eye looking dull.

 

"What's wrong"? "Nothing mama", I always said.

Dreading to talk,  she always blamed me, my pillow

comforted my head.

 

Now I'm back in my bed staring at that same ceiling fan wishing I was it.

It only has one job, to spin and create wind feeling good as shit.

 

My brother is 16. He just goes to school no job at all.

I'm struggling just like him often feeling small.

 

But that's the thing, parents "know it all" they were once in our shoes.

We live in a different generation now its not the same so what are you 

trying the prove?