when you are worth
nothing more than a grade
to those
who should love you most
then what are you, really?

are you a man?
are you a boy?
are you a good son?
a good brother?
or just a number?
what are you, really?

what's the point
of trying hard
to please them all
because when you fail,
as you undoubtedly will,
then what are you, really?

a number, some letters
and expectations that grow
faster than the mind or the body
can hope to keep up with
lead to broken dreams
and without dreams,
then what are you, really?

just a rag doll, tossed from
person to person, clinging
desperately, hoping for a glimpse
of appreciation, of wanting, of
love and affection, because without that
then what are you, really?

they say
you must love yourself
before you love others
but when it seems
like nobody else loves you
it's quite impossible
to love yourself

because if they don't love you
then who could?