Weight of the world sounds pleasant
when all the griefs to bear
crush the soul and body both.
Can’t be strong, can’t be weak,
can’t be weak enough to admit
that I’m stuck
nor strong enough to admit
that I’m weak.
I guess you are what eats you
when you go about
setting your own table.
I hate for you to see me like this–
not weak, but vulnerable.
You may wonder what the difference is
and to be honest,
maybe there’s not much of one:
I would be just fine
with a kick or ten when I’m down.
I’m weak, you know that.
But for you to see that a stray word
richocheted and grazed
this heart I try to hide on my sleeve,
would break me.
I’m not strong, you know that.
Is it pride? I don’t know.
I’m just sorry you had to see this.
Let me rest my eyes,
lay down my head;
you can throw me out with the trash
I’m vulnerable, didn’t you know?