Natürlich mochte ich die, die nicht ich waren, nur selten.

Ich bin kein Kind, ich bin nicht niedlich; warum soll man so jemanden streicheln?

Those who look sober , always have something unthinkably conspicuous in their minds going on

So they gave me love in form of poison and tiny little pills, programming my emotions, teaching me how to feel. To act correct and talk correct and answer without knowing the question, because that, my dear, is how you get love. Yes that, dear youth, is how you'll be loved. I tried to medicate my own fucked up little mind with chemicals and adrenaline, tasting sweeter every night, shaking louder every time. Sitting wide awake in bed until the world disappears, writing poetry to concentrate on something real while waiting for the love to arrive.
I've been looking for it night after night, waiting patiently for it to show up, maybe somewhere in between the state of awake and asleep, alive and not so alive, sober and not so sober.
(I lost track of the difference somewhere in between.)

If I had no worries, I would need to worry, why I have no worries.

I rather have a handful of Sobriety, than a handful of an alcoholic beverage.