Pick-me-up

I don't know where I am.
You can't pick me up if I don't know where I am.

This is not a cry for help, it's a fucking scream.
We're so hellbent on finding something real we reach out and reach out.
But end up only touching ourselves.
We all want nothing more than to feel.
Throw yourself at me just to feel alive for one stolen heartbreak of a moment.
We're on a string of broken promises and akward mornings, and for what?
Not to be comforted, not to be remembered, not to be loved.
To be seen.

Ok, I get it. Everything that has happend in your past makes for this throbing blink of seedy unseemingless, right now.
We're all damaged.
We've all got stories we could share.
But nothing would get fixed. Nothing would be solved.
Memories can't be forgotten. Nothing is ever forgotten.
Least of all promises.

The problem with self-loathing is you can't possibly conjure up any respect for the people who actually thinks good of you.

I need to be picked up, but who's gonna find me when I have no idea where I am.


- P -