Proud

She yelled some more

I did it again

just another disappointment

i left at her door

though i tried

hard as i might

she'd never understand

my desperate plight

to be appreciated

to hear her say aloud

"My daughter you've done wonderful,

you really make me proud."

but i know i'll never hear that

and she will never speake those words

because my best just isn't good enough

and it could never make her proud

Ritual

Everyday she wonders.
Everyday she cries.
Everyday she opens her knife
and lets her blood fly.
Hoping not to be here.
Hoping not to awake.
Hoping just to slide on by
without a single quake.
These feelings they are ritual.
These feelings are a norm.
These feelings leave her all alone,
in isolation she is torn.
No on ever noticed.
No one ever cared.
No one ever tried to see
her broken heart that could be spared.
She lives a life of mystery.
She lives a life of fear.
She lives a life of sadness,
that always brings her tears.
Everyday she wonders.
Everyday she cries.
Everyday is Ritual.
No one will see her die.