Poem: These Children

No one ever says or does the right things
when I'm sad.
Few have ever really tried, for that matter.
They offer to visit
or tell me to call,
not understanding that
I can do neither.
Their intrusion into my life
just makes things worse for me.

Every time I think of a friend,
with very few exceptions,
my heart starts to hurt
and my eyes fill with tears,
as I think of a person who's loved.
A person with family,
a person with dreams,
a person with possabilities,
a person with health,
a person with friends,
a person with a life.

A person,
in other words,
with a life I'd like to have,
instead of mine.

And it's not fair
that I have to live in so much
pain, despair, and lonliness.
While others get
support, love, and assistance.
While I live a life of constant
discomfort, humiliation, shame, desperation,
and survival.
Others prosper and create,
enjoy and experiment,
live and excell.

That these people come to me
and expect me to...
What?
What the fuck fo these
pampered assholes
want from me?
They don't want to help,
or if they do,
they're fucking incompetant.
I think they want to pretend to help,
to feel even better about themselves.

These Children.
Who can't even conceive the pain I endure.
Stupidly trying to help,
like a little girl
offering a drowning man
her last cookie.
Useless.
It might be flattering,
if the sight of them wasn't worse
than drowning alone.

Every time I am almost at peace
with my life
some lover or "friend"
has to show up to remind me
how much my life sucks
and how much I hate myself.

And every time I think I'm at my lowest,
there is always one mood lower.