|I live in a “home” with a revolving roof;|
when one roof is torn away, another takes its’ place-
none of them protect me from the rain.
Each roof tells me that they are righteous,
they are holy,
and if I am not as they are,
I can go outside, and drown.
I am never a good enough tenant.
Each roof tells of the overflowing gratitude I should have for them,
like just my being isn’t enough-
I have to garnish it to make it worthy.
Respect is earned;
I am bankrupt-
and they always remind me of just how much I owe them.
I know I’m supposed to applaud,
thank them for loving me,
as if they are sacrificing so much just to give me a second glance-
but I wish they could see just how hard I try, only to be of value to them.