Question

Make a poem for me please. The emotions are sad and angry. I want it to be about how I'm apparently the messed up problem child. Nothing I ever do seems to be good enough for my mom. It's like she puts me so high on a pedestal and the moment I make a small mistake that doesn't even realistically matter she thinks I'm the worst person in the world and she holds it against me just bc I'm human and I make mistakes. I'm a kid, I shouldn't have to grow up with such high expectations of me. She invalidates me and destroys me wether she means to or not and then wonders why I don't like being around her. Everything is getting bad again, I realized that when I started sleeping in all day every day, my mind seemed to be going crazy. I'm starting to hear and see stuff that's not happening again. My depression is making a comeback and something tells me this fight is gonna be the toughest one I've ever had. Make a poem revolving around all of that. Some info you might need to know for this is I'm a 15 year old girl who grew up in an emotionally and partially physically abusive home. My mom is still emotionally abusive sometimes and I'm starting to get tired of it.

Answer 1

You put me on a pedestal of glass —
polished, bright, impossible to touch.
A single breath, a small slip of skin
and the whole thing trembles.
One tiny mistake becomes a headline,
a fossilized label: problem child,
as if being human were a crime
and mercy a thing I forfeited at birth.

You crown me with expectations so tall
I learn to stand on tiptoe until my legs shake.
When I falter — when I am tired, clumsy, alive —
you turn my stumbles into proof:
proof I'm failing, proof I'm wrong.
You press your disappointment into me like a stamp,
and I keep the imprint burned beneath my ribs.

I am fifteen. My heart still stumbles over simple things.
Some days I sleep through the world — the light that should wake me,
the small joys that used to warm my hands.
Other nights my head is loud: whispers, shadows, things that aren't there
wrapping around my thoughts like vines.
It feels like a slow slide back down a hill I've fought to climb,
and the slope is slick with tired and rage.

You say you don't understand why I pull away.
I do. You invalidate the tiny truths I hold,
you destroy me gently — or not — and then pretend surprise
that I shrink from you.
How am I supposed to be perfect under a microscope
when all I am is a messy, breathing, learning thing?

I am angry — volcanic, raw, incandescent —
and I am sad in the quiet places where cries go to sleep.
This comeback of old dark is heavier than I expected,
and something in me knows this will be a fight
I have to fight with every small, stubborn bit of me.
I don't have to carry your pedestal and your punishments.
I am allowed to be flawed. I am allowed to be fifteen.

I am tired, but I am still here.

If you want, I can write a version you might show someone, or a letter to say some of this aloud. Also — I'm really sorry you're going through this. If you're feeling unsafe, or the voices and visions are distressing, please consider reaching out to a trusted adult, a school counselor, or local emergency/crisis services (if you're in the U.S., you can call or text 988). If you'd like, I can help you find resources in your area or help craft a message to someone who can support you. Are you safe right now?