Evenly

I've grown up too much
that my roots are withered
and my heart is scared.
I'm fixed in ticks
I can't let go
can't accept
if I do, it's to scorn.
I'm left to beg
pray that someone may see
take a long look at me
while I smile uneasily
spot the stain above my soul
-it's just coffee, really, but it's old-
and whipe it clean
with some harsh words
a slap and a mean
promise to lower my self esteem
and be by my side
till the sunrise
or beyond.