You're 41, sitting in my room,
like a scared puppy. I'm 18, what can I do to help you?
Stop, just grow up already.
You just keep crying.
I've wasted months consoling you and telling you that life is at your control.
Give it a chance.
But you don't listen.
You scream, fight, waste your own time as well as mine.
You are broken.
No one can fix you.
You don't belong.
It is you choose.
Your life is terrible.
That's how you make it.
You feel a pain.
But there's nothing really to gain.
I guess it's the drama that attracts you.
You love being helpless.
But I can't be a rock to somone who is supposed to be there for me.
I don't want to say it, I never wanted to say it, but I've had enough.
You're an embarassassment to women.
You disappoint all those that come in your life.
Your parents, your children, your friends, all out the window.
You're selfish. Get over yourself.
O, how long I've waited for you to flourish,
like a caterpillar to a butterfly, a metamorphasis.
Each day, I await happiness to strike you like lightning.
It never does, each day plays over the same events as the one before it.
You're sad, I help, you get no where.
I know something now, I let you be sad by being there for you.
I'm out, bye, you're alone, maybe when I come back...
you'll have changed.