WHY CRITICISM KILLS
I donít do the dishes right
The sink doesnít sparkle
The floors arenít white.
I canít change the light bulbs
Cause my legs are broke
I donít join in when youíre smoking dope.
Iím all in a dream world
Not your reality
Hiding the pain that you wonít see.
I donít own a lamp, but that doesnít matter.
Iím not organised; thereís too much clutter.
Iím no good at talking or helping you through
If youíve got a problem I donít listen to you
Iím too much of a prude Ė now that one I donít get
When I sleep next to you, naked.
When you look at me, who do you see?
A woman that loves you?
Do you really see me?
COPYRIGHT JOANNA JONES 2006.