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I hate the way you try and run my life,

The constant bickering at me,

Things I haven’t done are my fault,

You gave me life, I gave you love,

In the end, I get nothing.



I was nothing more than an accident,

A part of this world, I shouldn’t be,

Nothing more than a pain in your side,

A thorn forever pricking your finger,

The sun that never shines in your garden.



How is it that I came to be here?

Why is it that it happened?

What’s the reasoning behind the reason I'm here?

Are these questions rhetorical?

Or is it that you purposely chose to simply ignore me?



There will always be a feeling of compassion,

A sort of feeling of love, I get from you,

There will always be unanswered questions; ill never ask,

A set of feelings you don’t know I have,

But most of my life you will never see.



How is it you irritate me so?

Never calming me, just irritating,

Like a nettle sting on my leg,

Or an animal bite on my arm,

Maybe I’m ill and you’re the virus.



The pain that you cause; the scars wont heal,

The internal torment; my creator; my demon,

Unspoken words I wish to hear; but never will,

Reasons for things that forever remains untold,

Do you even love me? Do I love you?



Questions over me that never did get answered,

Knowing now, I never wish them to be,

The answers I seek; I know; but how?

Do you love me?

Can you love something you never wanted?



There must be a reason I trust you,

A reason I don’t doubt your judgements,

There must be something that you crushed over the years,

For if it’s not my spirit, life and emotions,

Then it must be my dreams; crushed, like a shell underfoot.



Tossed aside things I love,

Discarded memories like fragments of a shattered mirror,

You want to know me, be with me,

You are surprised when I discard you, like a mouldy apple,

Thrown away as if you mean nothing.



A shard of glass, a fragment of mirror,

A bleeding wound, forever internally open,

A life of solitude, because of a broken home,

A dying hope of reality and happiness,

A sombre silence of a starless night.



Why is it that I feel depressed?

Why is it that I can not love you?

Why is it that I can hate you?

Are there reasons for my questions?

Or must they be left unanswered?



I shall probably always wonder,

About those unanswered questions and their answers,

Although I know better than to ask,

Because I shall never receive,

Do I really need to know? Or do I already?



These untold things that plague my existence,

Mainly are you, and your unending hurt,

Things I do not wish to know,

And things I wish I didn’t,

Why is it that you hurt me if you love me?



So tell me why I wish to know; but don’t know,

Reveal to me my answers I seek, and fear,

Tell me my answers to my riddles and questions,

How can you tell me, without hurting me?

All I ask is that you love me; but I fear you.