I n d i v i d u a l
I'd screwed up again. I knew I had. According to Leonardo, to Master splinter, I hadn't worked hard enough. Again, they didn't listen to my side. I mean what could Michelangelo, the goof off, the screw up, possibly have to say that's worth while. I flopped backwards onto my bed. sighing. The supports creaked beneath me as I reached beneath my pillow, finding a tattered, faded book. Pages were coming out and falling all over.
I pulled out a pen, clicked it beneath my teeth and began to write.
I'm never understood, as far as effort goes.
I try my best so many times but no one ever knows.
They always see my faults, that's all they ever see.
I'm never good enough for them, but they're good enough for me?
I never see the justice here, the overriding words,
No one ever sees my side, and that's just how it works.
One will accuse the other, the other will defend,
But me caught in the middle with no way to make amends.
It always seem to be my fault, I get so sick of trying.
And sometimes in the aftermath, my heart feels like it's dying.
I know they'll never understand, they'll never ever see,
The person that I can become, the one inside of me.
If they always focus on my faults, the bad things all to non,
They'll always see the lazy one, who never gets things done.
They can say just what they want, no one ever minds
But they moment that I speak the truth, I have stepped out of line.
I hide my anger, but one day, it will come pouring out,
The hateful things that I can say to fill their minds with doubt.
But I am better than they are and I can hold my tongue
And one day when I'm older and they see what I've become,
They'll know it wasn't teenage years that made me act this way,
I am an individual and that's how I will stay.
Sometimes, I'm disgusted at this, the emo crap that I write, every once in a while, when everything is not going right. But then I realize that I don't care. I snap my book shut and bury my face in my pillow.
Another poem written with Michelangelo in mind.
What did you think?