I feel as though nothing I do will ever be good enough.

That I will always live in the shadow of what has already been done.

I just can't be who they want me to be,

The bar of expectation seems to raise itself higher as I reach to grasp it with my sweaty palms.

They expect me to be someone I'm not,

To transform into a perfect carbon copy of someone else.

I'm no longer allowed to be myself,

Everything I do is measured,

Compared.

It must live up to someone's standards now.

I'm being forced to take on a role,

Cloths far to big and baggy for my slender figure to fill.

I'm expected to grow into them I suppose,

To make someone else's clothes fit.

The only thing is,

I don't know if I can.