It's easier to follow the crowd
And succumb to poisonous words
Then to stand your ground
Being aware of the pain it causes
Is something they gladly ignore
I refuse to follow; I will not make a sound
Pressure building up inside my head
The bitterness surrounds me
The dirt remains on their lips
And judgement will be bled
Like a dying boar
Full of sickness, of disease
It will spread for all to tell
Who really knows me;
But the mask that they quickly read
Gives way to gossip hell
So feed the pettiness,
Feed the lies, the insecurities.
I will not give it any energy
Those who see the pain
And spread it instead of cure it
Are indeed sicker than me
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem