I’m supposed to be better
Your pride, your joy
And all the things you can’t do
Are supposed to be my quick employ

You were supposed to be better
His pride, his joy
But all the things you couldn’t do
Were just a mirror, and he saw a boy

So you tell me to be better
Because the pain never goes away
And everything that I can’t do
Is just a reminder we’re the same

But how can I be better
When in your eyes all I can see
Is the doubt you still retain
And though it’s his, it falls on me.

Weak Links

So many broken links
In one long endless chain;
Everybody points, but nobody thinks
That they might share the blame.
They want to dub a “weakest”
So that it will be okay
And the chain at last will be the best
With one link thrown away.
But such chains aren’t made of people,
So easily dismissed:
They’re linked by actions and their ripples;
Made brittle by our emptiness.

Slamming Doors

It’s better than it was before:
Laughter drifts through open doors;
So why does my chest tighten,
And my heart so quickly frighten,
At every hint of sounds like slamming doors?

Is it my unpainted fears
On the wall, downstairs?
Or the memory of a child,
Imagination running wild,
Listening to the yelling coming from upstairs?

Is it a weakness that is beautiful?
Or a strength to shield my weary soul?
Or a laughter in my mind,
That says to treat in kind,
And insists that in the end, no one’s really saveable?

Or maybe it’s the path I choose
At the crossroads of lose-lose;
And maybe if I try enough
At the game of never giving up,
I’ll find that there’s a prize that even on that road, I cannot lose.


When you get past the outer edges,
It’s a fall straight down;
We’re not ones for ledges,
And there’s no road back to town.
There is no path but forward,
And it’s a drop straight down:
I would say that you were forewarned,
But I wear each grievance upside down;
With every sorrow backwards,
And every smile as a frown.

Apathy is a Survival Trait

I say that I am tired,
But I’m meaning something else;
I’m meaning that I’m tired
Of this life, of this house.

I’m tired of the moment
That I am living in;
I’m tired of the words
That never come when I beckon.

I’m tired of the people
Trying to tell me what I am,
When I already know,
And I’m just trying not to give a damn.


Apologies; this one’s darker than perhaps it ought be. I’ve been having issues with a member of my family lately; he doesn’t seem to realize that no one is more critical of me than me, and it feels like he’s made it his mission to remind me constantly that I’m useless, that I’m “mean,” that I don’t care enough, etc. To be fair, I’m not the only one he does this to, and I have some understanding of the reasons behind it. But I am also really, really sick of it. Because I actually care what he thinks. And nothing I ever do is good enough, so… What’s the point?

Of course, I’ve never really talked to him about it. The last time I tried expressing my frustrations to him, I called him an attention whore. That was months ago. He still brings it up. That’s a common problem with me. With most of my family, actually. It’s either 0 or 100. Nothing in between. So when someone asks me what’s wrong, I just tell them I’m tired.

It’s not entirely untrue.


I don’t know how I’m supposed to be;
I never had a guide.
The person who was supposed to be
Learned to keep it all inside.
She lived rather a lot like me,
Never feeling like enough;
And now demands increase exponentially,
And she’s feeling like she’s had enough.
She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to be;
She never had a guide.
And now what are we supposed to be,
When we keep it all inside?

Your Toll

You ask for a toll that I cannot pay;
You ask for a laugh that I must fake;
You ask for a face that cannot stay,
Replaced by a frown that just won’t go away.

You ask for a heart that will not break;
You ask for an act with no final refrain;
You ask for naught but rainbows and cake,
And I find it’s more than I can take.

You ask for a forecast with no rain;
You ask for me to be the same.
You ask for a life that’s not in vain;
But the answer to that, I fear, is just more pain.


We are a line of black and white,
Numbers on our faces;
I never learned the rules quite right
I just know we’re in our places:
A blow of wind, we all fall down,
Holding to each other;
Dragging each his neighbor down,
Neither finding cover.


You want me to be better,
But you’re talking so loud;
I am not a speaker,
Just a push and then you have your sound.

You will have to work for it;
And I, I will stand my ground
If I find you pushing for it
And all I feel is being pushed around.