Bittersweet

I am willing, but not always able,

To be what I think it is to be relatable.

Everyone else seems to have read the manual

On how to accomplish life correctly.

Most days I feel an awkward fulcrum

The tipping point of uncertainty,

Between confidence and people pleasing,

Where I falter and withdraw.

It's all the people and all the stories

Of everything I am and never will be.

I feel the heavy weight of failing other’s expectations.

I am a disappointment, and it crushes me.

I know it's all just false idealism.

Why won't my feelings follow reason?

I don't know the banal comfort of blissful ignorance.

I am bittersweet.

I'm wrong, I'm wrong, I'm wrong.

I would willingly admit this a thousand times,

If you tell me how to never make

A hurtful mistake again.