A poem about Myself

I can't display anything at work...
I can't display anything at home.
I can't display anything
I can't display anything...
I can't display anything ever.
With friends or with enemies. Who can tell the fucking difference?

To myself I hide it from.
To myself I am perfect,
at least, trying to be.
That try, that want, that URGE.

My old self. My self.


I need to change. Who cares about them. Them all and their rules.
The fucking whole past has been about limiting.
Why did they not care about what people feel back then. And now,
Old fashioned.
Garbage. Fuck.