I’m not lazy–I don’t think so, or, maybe I am from what they say.
Maybe there is nothing wrong with me, maybe I am selfish. 

They don’t care, don’t pass a stare, not until you start failing.
Whatever happened? What is going on? Why are you failing?

I do not enjoy pity, not a mere bit.
It feels like everyone around me just stares.
I fit in well, pleasing everyone with tales.
I know I’m not the black sheep,

More like a labradoodle, a sweet talker.

It’s not my fault–maybe it always has been, from what they say
I know I’m not intelligent, I barely have my screws left.
It’s just like talking to a wall is what they say.

No matter the holes in my body,

Punctured inside deep in me,
Each one represents the strains of overdoing it.
But I’m still alive, so it doesn’t matter.

I’m just sluggish, not burnt out–maybe I just don’t appreciate...
But I can’t help but feel like I can never escape my bed. Never finish my work.
I will never let this out, my vulnerability is just weakness.

I forget to continue to water the plant

It’s probably just browning and perished

Or maybe that–actually, I’ll finish this later, I’m not in the mood.