I'm confused

Not with schoolwork

Nor with puzzles, 

But my own brain.

You say I can tell you anything

But in reality, I can't.

Not because you would judge me,

But because I would judge you.

If I complain about my privilages

You say "At least you have..."

Which makes me sad to think that you have to live without.

You see, this is why I can't tell you everything

I feel angry that you don't listen to my complaints

So I keep them bottled up instead.

And if I were to tell you,

And you were to open up, such as I did

I might be upset by your comments

Not complaints of what you lack

But who I am to get upset when you let your feeling out

Is it wrong of me to be mad about bottling up when you need to break your own glass.

I need to tell you everything about my spoiled life

So that you may never have to feel the way I do.