I'm not happy at all
And I can't seem to explain it very much for people to see its actuality,
Not enough to understand how much it consumes me
When I don't even know myself.

It's a good job I don't have a father
Because he'd only ever be disappointed in me
Every single second.
I don't even know why it keeps coming back to that;
I find it repulsing because I never used to care
And I never should and it makes me hate everything a little more
Each and every time I fall again.

I hate the way this poem complains
And sounds like a pointless wining child.
It's just like I'm listing complaints,
Which literally I am
How ******* pathetic is that?
I can't even make it go right and now that I've started
I wish I'd stopped.
In just a few seconds I'll post to prove
Just how much I get wrong daily.

Don't think I'm asking for sorrow and praise,
I never do that because I know there won't be any responses.
People complain elsewhere about being taken ill
Some people wonder if it's also for attention,
But if I did that then I wouldn't get a single mention.

All my aggravation is erupting to the surface,
But volcanoes create a more magnificent disaster
Whereas my destruction is purely chaotic,
No one else notices.
I either try to hide it or attempt to subtly admit it
Which I guess no one takes seriously
And I keep thinking it doesn't need to be.
I'm starting to wonder if it will actually become a problem
Because it feels like a lot,
Although as it's me
It's probably not.