Question

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

Make this poem make more sense and rhyme more

Answer 1

You put me on a pedestal of glass — polished, bright, too high to touch,
one breath, one slip of skin, and every eye will pry and clutch.

One tiny mistake becomes a headline: "Problem child," they name,
as if being human were a crime and mercy bore the blame.

You crown me with expectations so tall I learn to never fall,
I stand on tiptoe till my knees give out, pretending I can do all.

When I falter — tired, clumsy, alive — you turn the moment wrong,
you press your disappointment like a stamp and carry it along.

I am fifteen; my heart still trips on ordinary things I've seen,
some days I sleep through morning light and miss the small and green.

Other nights my head is loud with whispers, shadows, shapes like vines,
they wrap around my restless thoughts and choke the soft outlines.

It feels like sliding back the slope I've fought so hard to climb,
slick with tired and old dark that returns in secret time.

You say you don't understand why I pull away and close the door,
but you deny the tiny truths I hold, then act surprised I withdraw.

I am angry — volcanic, raw — and sad where quiet things go deep,
this comeback of the old dark weighs more than I expected to keep.

Still something stubborn in my chest will fight for breath and steer,
I will not carry your pedestal, your punishments, your fear.

I am allowed to be flawed. I am allowed to be fifteen, sincere.
I am tired, but I am still here.