Sometimes I Write Too Real by Eric Sparks

I’m weak; I’m sorry
and I don’t care.
I’ve been here, I’ve been there;
I’m still scared.

Apathy might be the worst trait,
I might be the worst person alive, but
I always tried; I know everybody always
saw my tries; I just wanted to be the nicest person alive;
I just wanted to make the world right, in everybody’s eyes.
I always thought everything would be fine if I would just flash my smile lines.
I gave myself to the world and I gave myself to those girls;
the world kicked me in the balls and the girls left me in a room full of walls.

Don’t lie to yourselves, we have no control;
I was born with the best intentions;
the world took those and gave me depression.

The world is just backwards:
I hate hurting people and people love hurting me.
Funny, she’s the one calling me weak, but I gave her
everything and she still couldn’t help but ____; she couldn’t wait
a week so that everything was over, before that heat.

I loved baseball more than anything,
but then in spring of senior year, I found my arm in a sling;
I thought about surgery, but there was no time in between.
I guess that means college baseball is no longer a dream.

I didn’t train every day;
only six out of seven days.
That wasn’t that much effort, besides
it’s just a game; I shouldn’t be upset
about fucking baseball anyway.

I’m supposed to count my blessings,
and be thankful for what I have;
but I don’t know where they came from,
I didn’t even ask.
These blessings aren’t blessings,
the world can have them back.