I'm tired and alone
and sick of surviving on you.
I never thought I'd grow weary of your concern,
but I've found I always do.
I've tried to own the sense of humor
everone expects of me,
but there's only so much I can take
before you start crushing me.
I've tried to grasp the abstract thought
but find it disappears.
There's a ticking in the background;
Pressure building on my ears.
The abrasiveness of the situation
scratches the tears out of me.
The humor in the story is
that I clung to you.
I did everything you wanted me to.
Give me back my perception.
The humor is I am still a child
and reality is suffocating me.
I'm tired and alone
and sick of surviving on you.
I can feel our pressure building;
I hate you, too.