Tired Of It

Dear Life,

I really don’t understand.

I hate not being able to understand.

For once I can say I enjoy something, yet you take it away?

When did I ask for your opinion?

When did I ask for your permission?

I didn’t realize I needed your rain in order to fly.

I didn’t recognize I needed your fire in order to blossom.

I like being me.

I like being free.

So why cut my wings the second I can see.

See through my sorrow and anger.

See through these clouds they call depression.

The problem is you don’t tell me not to fly too close to the sun,

not to glide to close to the sea.

The problem is you tell me not to speak.

Not to fly at all.

That I look prettier when I don't utter a sound.

And why should I care?

Why should I listen to all the negativity?

It’s the only thing I seem to hear.

I try. Don’t you dare say I don’t.

No one knows my struggle better than me; except maybe the Lord.

But even then you can’t tell me that putting on a happy face even though I’m crumbling isn’t trying.

You can’t tell me that crying out to my Father in despair isn’t trying.

You can’t tell me that my hardships in trying to be a perfect daughter isn’t trying.

You can’t.

I won’t let you.

It’s all I am.

It’s all I’m trying to be.

It’s squeezing every ounce of hope in me.

Trying to be what you want me to be. But it won’t work.

No matter how hard I try to fit, I can’t put myself in the silhouette you created for me.

You tell me to just say “Yes Ma’am” instead of asking why.

You tell me to just do as I’m told instead of saying “Yes Ma'am”.

You tell me I’m being disrespectful when I turn around to do what you sent me to do.

I can’t win.

I don’t want to win.

I just want to make you happy. But I can’t even do that.

I try to express how I feel but instead of being concerned you cry,

saying that I’m ungrateful and that you had and have it so much worse.

Well guess what.

I know there are children in Africa starving.

I know that there are kids in Cuba working.

I know there are daughters whose parents are divorced.

I know there are sons whose father never came back from war.

I know what I’m going through is a speck on a clover,

but that speck is my entire world.

It’s what I go through without end.

It’s the best and the worst that has happened to me.

I know I should be grateful and I am every single day.

But that doesn’t make my situation better.

A man could have robbed a store

but knowing there is a murderer out there doesn’t make his crime any more righteous.

So what’s the point I’m trying to make?

It’s to give me a break.

I’m not perfect. Heck I don’t want to be perfect.

So stop comparing me to this image when you tell me never to compare myself to others.

Stop fitting em into this box when you tell me to spread my wings.

Stop.

Enough.

I can’t take it anymore.

I’m about to break.

And like an egg, once I do, you won’t be able to put me back together.

Sincerely,

a person who wishes rest