I can worry a groove into this floor,
I can pace back and forth for years,
I see myself, a future widow,
Waiting for someone to come home.
I am on thick carpet, carving a path,
It is new it is strange I am lonely and empty,
The worth inside of me raises its head
And goes back to sleep.
I fret too much, I worry about the broken souls I carry on my shoulders -
They don’t even know how much their happiness means to me.
I worry that tomorrow he will not wake up;
I worry that tomorrow she will forget how beautiful she is.
I feel like I am not precious,
And I am counting the days, holding them to my heart,
Waiting for him to realize his mistake,
And break my heart -
Which I would happily let him do
Because that is the cost of love, my happiness for his.
I worry that I am a burden,
After all I am lazy and I procrastinate.
I pace this wooden floor, back and forth,
‘Til I wear away a board and fall down
Into a pit of despair.
I am counting pennies, hoping
That I have enough for this next cost,
Worrying that I will regret it -
I regret so much in life.
“Live with no regrets!” I cry,
And I try to follow it, I do -
But I regret so much.
I worry I am a hypocrite,
That the words that come from my mouth don’t match my actions -
I know already that I do not practice what I preach,
That the darkness inside of me has swallowed me,
When I claim to be happy.
I worry that someone will see through my mask,
That my words will fall to pieces,
And in the echo of my love and hate,
I will be stripped bare, red and raw,
And I cannot gather myself together in time,
To pretend in continuation that I am fine.
I worry that the ones I love the most do not see my flaws;
Why, I wonder, do they not abandon me?
A fitting punishment for a torn creature,
I can do no pain when they do not stay.
I am not strong enough to push them away.
I worry about the damage I cause,
When in anger I lash out,
And all I get in response is understanding,
How can they not see,
That everything is wrong with me?
I worry that my words are too personal,
Or not personal enough.
I worry that nothing I do is good enough,
What sort of carried cost can I rise?
I worry that Ingrid Michaelson and Dia Frampton
Are not enough to keep the pain at bay;
I sing along with my favorite songs,
But when I hurt, I despair.
I worry about how selfish I am -
I know I go too far.
I’m glad, at least, that I don’t hate myself for selfishness anymore,
But I still feel such a bitter chokehold,
I cannot understand.
I worry that when all is said and done,
The world will see through my lies.
“I’m fine” means something more along the lines of
“I’m breaking, but I’m making it”.
After all - I make my day,
You fake it until you make it,
I have to make it one day.
I worry that this is not good enough,
The baring of my soul,
But this is all I can do,
Poetry is all I’ve ever known.