To pick up the pieces self-shattered
Undo the mess I helped create.
To ignore the internal bruises
As my heart continues to palpitate.
I don’t want to live with the pain of failure
But I’m afraid to die.
I don’t want to look like a coward
In my parent’s eyes.
This isn’t supposed to be about them
It’s supposed to be about me.
Yet disappointment will just have to be an ointment
So that I may see.
So that I may piece back together my life
The way it ought to be.
So I can pick back up me.