Them (A Prelude)-Dead Celebrity Status

Them (A Prelude) - Dead Celebrity Status I remember the old me The one that was hesitant and simple Afraid, tolerating, invisible Only notice when I was at the end of a punchline or a punch And punchline hurt more With a bruised identity and a shattered perception of who I was I can find myself to a carousel A merry go round, I was less merry and more toxic A systematic awkwardness A discomfort in disconnect with salvation A punishment deserved A loneliness inherited because I did not fit in with them I lingered in a constant nightmare Sleepwalking my days away Helplessly, hopelessly, Horrified An inperfection waiting for surgical hands to reach down and light bulk suck my existence From a world that had widiculed and booby trapped me into an empty shell of worthlessness When will it stop I remember the day I stopped trying to figure out who I was And instead I asked the question "Why do they hate me?" Because hate is conveniently fueled by fear And fear is a much easier emotion then courage So why are they scared of me? Why did I not fit in, with them? Armed with poison tip tongues they released the stockpile of venomous delusions and hatred Freak, weirdo, faggot, loser, misfit, different they howled But you see My lexicon does not socom to your meaningless ignorance and lack of originality My shoulders have carried the weight of a thousand voiceless screams So I stand here before you and say "Do your worst" Words are wind and your weapon of choice will no longer com-show me You will no longer render me inferior So while they dwell in that pidiful superficial cave The flames of the worrying fire dance upon the wall They remain mentally shackled Possessed by puppet shadows, projected before them Distorted vibrations cocooned by unaware Cookie cutter personality with hollowed minds For that is their reality They tried to confind me to the night But I like the taste of the dark And as I looked through the cracks in the wall an untangled a caught webs of thought I finally know who I am I will no longer be backhanded or backstabbed I can no longer backpaddle and blackout I will no longer stand still and fear the worse I've got a fettish for destruction and an appetit for creativity Razerbladed teardrops trickle down and slice my face into puddles of emotional distress and actualization I will no longer be tormented by illusion that being different is being wrong A throwaway kid they called me And a throwaway kid I am No longer empty and alone Finally happy That I will never fit in, with them