Poem babies that were too small to make seperately

There's a firestorm of doubt held within my heart

And yet those thin walls still beat in rythm,

As if there was never a doubt that it would continue to strum

Compliments are as golden as they are rotten in my mind

Each one sweeter then the next,

Each one piling up in an endless void,

In one ear and out the next

But they sure do sound pretty

I feel as though I am a burglar 

Stealing the life of those around me

I like what they like

I do what they do

I complain to them

I talk to them

I hang on to them

Each second I take up is another one wasted

And yet,

I must be good at my job

For no one even realizes it