Poetry, if even

For you. 25ApR17

     It must be easy. It has to be. At least, for you. Yea, I question myself a ton. What's the big deal? It's certainly not me.
"I'm fine" I say. I don't mean it, of course I don't, because how could I?
For you to ask me those simple, annoying questions, "How are you?" Or "What's up?" Or my personal favorite "Is everything OK?"
"No" I answer. I'm not. I can't be. Just look, you'll see.
"Why?" You ask.
"Because," I answer, "everyday gets shittier and shittier".
"How?"
"How else," I respond, "then to be sad and depressed and exposed, alone, in the wide open world".
See? I know what you say and I know my responses. For you to think I don't, would be foolish. For you, for you. For who else? No one. It's always for you. I put on a mask, for you. I lie, for you. I would die, for you. I cry, for you. I beg, for you. Why don't you hear me??? I'd do anything, for you. For you to understand, is a life goal. For you... I would...