If there is one thing I dread its sympathy,
I don't want you to tell me that your sorry,
Stopping me from edging little steps up,
And pushing me, in one single crooked motion,
All the way to the ****** ground,
One thing is to miss a step and fall,
Another is to be purposefully pushed down.
I don't want you to steal glances at me,
When essentially you think I'm not looking,
I can see, in your watchful eyes, the lines of sadness,
I can hear your conscience silently judging,
Sorry to break it to you, but it is noticeable,
So much misery is not impossible.
I don't want you to promise you will help,
When you walk forward and never return,
But then again I'm none of your concern,
So why do I seem to be a main attraction?
I know I'm not perfect,
Far from with my bountiful imperfections,
But sympathy never will be compassion,
I do not want your pity.