A part of me wants to wither up and die,
Every time I am exhalted and praised...
It does not matter if I can write so well,
If that writing is not able to pay my rent.
It does not matter if I have a great personality
To the creditors who expected to be paid -
Perhaps with the weight of their sanctions.
It does not matter if I have a multitude of directions,
When I can not get out of bed, in my fits of anxiety.
I am well aware that I have some great skills,
Perhaps some interesting abilities...
I still fall through the cracks, broken and discarded,
Because I do not exactly fit that role,
That extroverted, talkative, alpha male
Bullshit that everyone wants me to be.
"I am terrified of the spotlight, don't you see?"
So, I wither and I die,
A little bit more, each day.
I hope for past help, once promised,
And, instead, I have to weather
All your kind, yet cruel, things that you say.
I realize that these are my many walls, put up,
Amidst so much smoke and mirrors,
Some feeble attempt to scream away the advice...
Yet, still... I've withered and died.