A Self-Aware Poem

I am,
as the cliche goes,
a mess of contradictions.
Conflicting depictions of self
fighting to emerge
(None with conviction.)

I am,
as the cliche goes,
unsure of who I am, really.
Never sure what thoughts are my own,
never certain of what I’m feeling.

These trite words are all I have.
None of which convey
the real sense, the real heart of the thing
This thing
This cliched struggle inside of me.

I feel too deeply.
I am too earnest.
Pretending that the rage, the love, the despair inside
isn’t the blasting furnace that it is
Hiding grand gestures behind small ones
Suppressing pain
Until it all festers, boils over, merges
And it all starts to feel the same:
Hopeless, and useless
and utterly inane.

Isn’t that how the story always goes?
To reveal too much is to risk rejection.
And when you (I) already feel so worthless
is it worth the risk?
Showing myself? Being proven right?
(Oh god, but what if I finally find connection?)
(Oh god, I am so tired of walking on eggshells.)

I feel too deeply.
I am too earnest.
Heart on my stupid sleeve.
Always struggling to please.
Always hoping to be seen.
Always hiding, hiding, hiding
because who could really love all the earnest, eager,
scarred and scared parts of me?

Bending over backwards.
Trying to be what people need.
Tiptoe, don’t impose, don’t suppose.
Be more, be better, be useful
You (I) don’t matter
I’m just here to fill a role.

More triteness that doesn’t make sense.
Taking up too much space, worthless words, weak rhymes.
A summary of all this stuff:
I am,
as the cliche goes,
always too much.
Yet I will never be enough.