Wade Wilson — Roleplayer Guild

I'm not in the mood for writing a long rant and pour my heart out, so I'll just leave you with some words from Shane Koyczan's "To This Day" to try and describe the situation.
I’m not the only kid
Who grew up this way;
Surrounded by people who used to say
That rhyme about sticks and stones.
As if broken bones
Hurt more than the names we got called,
And we got called them all.
So we grew up believing no one
Would ever fall in love with us,
That we’d be lonely forever,
That we’d never meet someone
To make us feel like the sun
Was something they built for us
In their tool shed.
So broken heart strings bled the blues
As we tried to empty ourselves,
So we would feel nothing.
Don’t tell me that hurts less than a broken bone.
That an ingrown life,
Is something surgeons can cut away;
That there’s no way for it to metastasize.
It does.

[...]

We weren’t the only kids who grew up this way.
To this day,
Kids are still being called names.
The classics were;
Hey stupid,
Hey spaz.
'Seems like each school has an arsenal of names,
Getting updated every year.
And if a kid breaks in a school,
And no one around chooses to hear,
Do they make a sound?
Are they just the background noise,
Of a soundtrack stuck on repeat,
When people say things like kids can be cruel?
Every school was a big top circus tent,
And the pecking order went:
From acrobats to lion tamers,
From clowns to carnies.
All of these were miles ahead of who we were.
We were freaks;
Lobster claw boys and bearded ladies,
Oddities.
Juggling depression and loneliness; playing solitaire, spin the bottle.
Trying to kiss the wounded parts of ourselves and heal.
But at night,
While the others slept,
We kept walking the tightrope;
It was practice.
And yes,
Some of us fell,

But I want to tell them,
That all of this shit,
Is just debris.
Leftover when we finally decide to smash all the things we thought we used to be.
And if you can’t see anything beautiful about yourself;
Get a better mirror.
Look a little closer.
Stare a little longer.
Because there’s something inside you,
That made you keep trying,
Despite everyone who told you to quit.
You built a cast around your broken heart,
And signed it yourself.
You signed it:
“They were wrong”.
Because maybe you didn’t belong to a group or a clique,
Maybe they decided to pick you last for basketball, or everything,
Maybe you used to bring bruises and broken teeth,
To show and tell but never told.
Because how can you hold your ground,
If everyone around you wants to bury you beneath it?
You have to believe that they were wrong.

They have to be wrong.

Why else would we still be here?
We grew up learning to cheer on the underdog,
Because we see ourselves in them.
We stem from a root planted in the belief,
That we are not what we were called.
We are not abandoned cars stalled out and
Sitting empty on a highway.
And if in some way we are,
Don’t worry;
We only got out to walk and get gas.
We are graduating members from the class of 'Fuck Off, We Made It!'.
Not the faded echoes of voices crying out
Names will never hurt me.

Of course they did.

But our lives will only ever always continue to be a balancing act,
That has less to do with pain,
And more to do with beauty.
Wade Wilson Member

bruh.

Status

Bio

Most Recent Posts
