Gone,
Who I,
Could've been.
You didn't let me grow.
Singing your own song,
And expecting me to sing along,
To conform to,
All you know.
Like a sycamore tree,
Blowing the wind,
The chaos never ends,
Because you're still inside.
Speaking.
Listening.
Judging.
Perfecting everything I do to undo all that I've made myself.
Your abusive nature killed my soul,
Now I, alone,
Work on damage control,
Because I was taught never to rely on others,
only on your control.
I hope you're miserable with the new song I sing at night,
I hope every note makes your ears ring just right,
Because now that I found my song, self made,
I'll never stop singing,
With words to say galore.
A tree no longer struggling against the wind you created,
Though sometimes it feels like collapsing,
I have held it up for so long,
with you,
Why not a thousand years more.
Who are you to I?