'To The Boy Sobbing' by Ravyn LaRue

I don't even want to write these sort of things, but if I want to amount to anything at all I need to fend for myself and be the instrument I ought to be.
Instruments don't stifle.
Instruments tell all.
But instruments don't get headaches, but I do.
It doesn't hurt instruments to tell their stories.
But then again, all the art I love (and I mean really love, the sort of odd devotion that mirrors insanity- that love)
All the art I love pains me.
It makes me cry and convulse.
So if I'm to be an artist-
I better get comfortable with convulsing.
I find myself trying to shed all the rottenness I've accumulated over the past few weeks here.
But I'm happy here.
I'm happy here.
Aren't I?
Well I'm zen, I'm content
But I'm separated from loved ones (and I mean real loved ones, who I reach out to as if I longed only for them, though it may mirror insanity- those loved ones)
I'm separated from loved ones.
And my headache is returning.
But unlike yesterdays, I cannot afford to stop.
And the internet taunts me-
With lyrics that sounded sweet then
And animals that aren't my own.
Someone killed my spider.
And I know that's an odd thing to mourn.
Grandmas and dogs die too, eventually.
But Lugosi, my spider, was something I latched onto.
He was my placebo pet.
And someone had the audacity to kill him.
I know there are worse things.
That's what I repeat-
Whenever things like this happen, I tell myself.
You know there are worse things.
You're privileged and happy, most of the time-
So this sadness isn't valid, unless it isn't your own.
I can cry about war and injustice- they are inescapable and universal, and there are fewer things worse than my daily turmoils.
Hero came to me in a dream.
She said, "You've come so far, and I'm proud."
I smiled and cried, as I am one to do.
And woke up, only to proceed to fuck up everything possibly ruinable throughout the day.
And I can't go without conjuring others
Which proves how unoriginal I am
And I'm sick when I breath and I wish you would leave, at the very least quit the contractions.
I think I would want to be a teacher
Especially if I get sick from dreaming as easily as this
But dear lord think of the children
I need to write of unspeakable things
I'm too sweet for unspeakable things; I mean that in a bad way.
But I have to write unspeakable things
I am an instrument.
Instruments have no filter.
Instruments don't have to stop to cry- they push on.
Instruments play through the pain.
And I'm sick of myself, and I wish you could help. Have a shot with me, pull up a ladder.
I have no right to act this way
I know it
But I know I'd feel tons worse if I didn't do this
So I'm sorry
But I have to.