The whole fiasco hurts me soul. Do I care about all of you or do I care about losing control? It’s not my job to be in the middle. Their problems become mine and I go from being fine to hating each line - of bullshit - that you give me. You look up to me and I look down on you. I fill your trough with hope and you snort it up with dope. Where does drunk talk end and real advice begin? I’m not a healer I’m a stealer, a thief. I steal your problems and make them my own. Fuck! We’re already grown. I used to love you. You were my friend. Why did I put all that work in? My vanity is destroying my insanity. I feel great by feeling your hate. I’m your superior because I keep you in that hole. I made you inferior. It doesn’t matter if what I say is true. Between me and you we’re both stuck in the slop. Objectively, you’re the one down there. I try to lend a hand but your head remains in the sand. I’m a problem solver. That’s what I was put here for. You’re dependent on me. You’re incapable of fixing your position and I pretend to sit and listen. I spew good advice. I spew bile. I want you to make it but you never will. I’m your crutch. You must know I don’t really give a fuck. I need you to remind me that my problems aren’t as bad as yours. But, I love you. Keep your head up. Make it. Prove my tirade faulty. Take that adversity and become strong. I see your potential but you don’t. I’ll keep reminding you that I’ll stand by you. Secretly, I’m standing far behind you.
Image taken from: http://www.cretarolodesign.com/portfolio_cindy.php