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stevenkenny77@yahoo.co.uk

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Whatever...

by

Why is it that we think
That we have to try and be
The person that somebody else
Wants us to be?
 
And why is it that we strive
To perform for everyone around
To get them to admire
The plays that we contrive?
 
Why do we pile the pressure on
And drive ourselves so hard?
To please and impress
Until the real us is gone?
 
And why is it that I write this?
Do I think you really care?
Do I think that you’ll feel sorry for me?
And help me out of this abyss?

◄ I'm Alright

Dead of Night ►

Comments

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Bernadette Herbertson

Sat 25th Jun 2011 22:09

I like this one kenny and i can relate to it well and truly understand what you are saying here ... bernadette

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Elaine Booth

Sat 25th Jun 2011 00:07

Really empathise with this, Kenny. Missed you last Tuesday.

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Dave Bradley

Fri 24th Jun 2011 13:18

Agreed with sentiments here, Steven. Put me in mind of The Games People Play by Eric Berne

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Rachel Bond

Fri 24th Jun 2011 01:56

i dont think anyone knows who they really are. The older i got the more contrived the scenery and the players get and the farther the journey back to the soul gets. I used to think that with age i would discover great serenity and wisdom like a buddhist monk or at least become a wise old lady with silver hair and a spark in the eye...now i think ill be lucky if i get to 40 without killing anyone ;)

i helped you out of a bush once...does that count? :)

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