I think sometimes, that I made the wrong choice.
See it’s not as easy as you think being nice because there very much is a choice behind that smile
That sweet gentle passive beguile
Sometimes I feel like I’m surrounded by morons, big lumbering idiots, slack-jawed, overly burdened with your decorative muscle, dribbling over some poor girls affection or god-forbid your own reflection
But then I realise that the girl in question, turns to the empty headed tinder addict offering a coy smile,
She likes the attention
And I just spent an hour and a half talking about her life, giving her advice and generally being nice and I receive no respite! Bastards!
They’re all troglodytes and these clubs are their caves
This mess of short dressed heathens and their courtly routines, I hate them
Is it that I’m bitter and green because I would rather be the hero of this scene, is it spite that I feel?
Would I give away my open heart and gentle smile just to be the man’s man for a little while?
Could I just be the muscle for a one nights tussle?
Should I change my character because I chose the wrong story, the wrong stats, the wrong glory?
I suppose I’m a fighter because I’m always at war with these standards
Over all the glitz and glamour, the books and photos and filters, the instant connection that we now have to all of the maps of all of the stars and all of the spaces in between,
Is it really still how I look and who I can beat that makes me the star on your silver screen?
What about the one who lends his ear, and his shoulder, what about the crier, or the lover, or the flyer who avoids the fighter?
What about the quiet man in corner, gentle and passive, vulnerable, ignored
Does he get the girl?
Is it harder being nice or being hard? Sleeping rough or being tough?
If I hadn’t of lost her to another, would I still believe that a conversation could change the world?
Did she take my integrity and now I wallow in doubt and spite of…