March 2nd

I am a canyon carved with water-worn cracks;
The weight of other people always breaking my back.

Their commands, their demands, how they misunderstand,
How they glare, how they dare to constantly stare
At my faults! And they point! I'm below all the rest-
Guilty before the jury because I can't pass their test.
I wish they thought me independent; I wish they thought me strong.
But when I see my eyes, I see I'm viewing it all wrong.

They smile to my face because they see no flaw in me.
Offhand comments made aren't meant to stab insecurity.
I don't think I'm independent, and I don't think I'm strong.
That's why everything I hear turns to a self-destructive song.
The problem is inside of me; the problem's in my head.
The problem reminds me of our front yard flower bed.

My father tried to garden, but he dug a hole too deep.
It looked like a grave, and I wondered what it would be like to lay there and sleep.
I could lay there and rest, and be covered with dirt, and just stay there in the ground.
Away from all eyes, away from all harm, and away from the world's hateful sound.

So plant me in the garden, and let the flowers take me back,
'Til water wears away the rocks, and I'm a canyon carved with cracks.

This poem is about: 
Me

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