If there is one thing I dread its sympathy,
I don't want you to tell me that your sorry,
Stopping me from edging little steps up,
And pushing me, in one single crooked motion,
All the way to the damned ground,
One thing is to miss a step and fall,
Another is to be purposefully pushed down.
I don't want you to steal glances at me,
When essentially you think I'm not looking,
I can see, in your watchful eyes, the lines of sadness,
I can hear your conscience silently judging,
Sorry to break it to you, but it is noticeable,
And only brings negativity.
I don't want you to promise you will help,
When you just walk forward and never return,
But then again I'm none of your concern,
So why do I seem to be a main attraction?
I know I'm not perfect,
Far from with my bountiful imperfections,
But sympathy never will be compassion,
I do not want your pity.