Frustration isn’t kindled, it’s explosive
That consumes heatedly emotive
Set off by expectations wildly high
That I myself set, but cannot get by
My heart crumbles when I get to see
How terrible I must really be
I struggle and fight and work so hard
Just to be good enough, but I’m barred
I try and try and try without hope
Oh, will good ever be in my scope?
No, it won’t. I never will.
I’ll always, always, always be ill.