i spend my days
pouring myself into the cups of others

only to find that
when it’s time for myself
to take a sip

all that’s left
in my cup
is the remainder of a girl
who gave too much

I spend too many nights thinking
Wondering, writing, dreaming
Of someone who doesn't even think of me

The painful truth is
  (undeniable / dawning)
that
  (most / many)
young people won't
  own their own house,
  have a stable job
  or raise a family.
They've been brought up
  (expecting / taught)
by generations that lived
lives that were
much more similar
to their own parents'.
The future, now
  (bleaker, / reality,)
looks like it can't keep
its promises.
What
  (anger / shame)
will fill the void?

When I was a child,
I was taught poetry wasn't mild,
It was deep as the sea,
And it seemed truly unachievable for me.
I was taught poetry had to rhyme,
Every single line, every single time.
So poetry seemed out of my reach,
Like chasing a seagull down a beach,
Jumping ever so slightly away,
Or soaring into the sunny day.

So I never thrived for what I thought would,
No, Could
Never be.

I guess now I'm fixing the mistakes of past me.