They ask if I'm okay,
As if they have the right to say,
To meddle in the life I lead,
And offer up their “helpful” creed.

“Get a job,” they tell me, “just a start,”
“Go to therapy, fix your heart.”
But once I do, they criticize,
For not working enough or working with lies.

They judge my struggle, my poverty’s weight,
Then blame me when I can’t articulate,
What’s wrong, what’s right, what’s left to fix—
Though they never showed me how to speak those tricks.

They say, "Just enjoy, live with ease,"
But how can they know what brings me peace?
They can't read my mind, can't see my soul,
And yet, they think they know me whole.

If only they could see, like Truman’s show,
All my thoughts, all the places I go,
Maybe then they'd understand,
That I don’t need their hand.

I solve my own, no need to explain,
In the end, there’s no real pain.
I am okay, always was,
No problem here, just because.