Helpless

There is nothing to be done when
you will never be proud of me.
There is nothing I can do
that will open up your eyes,
nothing I can attempt to watch
the joy well in your gaze.
Over and over and over I struggle
to make you smile and
forget your worries, but
all I see is your nonchalant nod,
your constant persistence that
I am not good enough.
I am not good enough.
I am not good enough.

There is nothing to be done when
I can never please you.
There is nothing I can do
that will bring a grin to your face
without some type of disclaimer
and nothing is surreal.
Every single day is a fight
to keep everybody around me
happy. Period.
'You' is the world, I am the abyss
or so it feels, wrapped up in
melodrama and inconsistencies,
and maybe that's why I'm alone.
I am not good enough.

It's okay to write for yourself

Laughing at Family Guy,
half covered by a blanket,
curled on my bed.
How is it still airing if
I'm the only person left
on Earth?
There is nothing left to fear -
no wars, no greenhouse gases, no
peer pressures, unknown tensions,
societal expectations,
people asking about religion, about
grades, about goals, about smiles and tears.
There is nothing left to fear when
I'm the only person left
on Earth.
There is no one to be pretty for,
no one to worry about or to call or text,
no one to occupy me, but
no reason to hide. No reason to work out,
but no gym memberships to pay,
no log-ins, no questions, no drive-bys,
no drive-thrus, no locked doors,
no one to come when an alarm is triggered.
There is no one to be pretty for when
I'm the only person left
on Earth.