You people act like I'm your doormat, something you can wipe your feet on.
All you do is walk all over me and then I turn around and you're gone.
There are hardly any thank-yous, never any apologies,
And then all of you come to me with your problems and act as if I have a major in psychology.

I'm fine with being the advice giver, the listener, the hostess.
I'm fine with being the loyal friend, the secret keeper, and maker of the best French toast.
But when you people take me for granted, when you all take advantage of me,
Here are some things I end up being:
The rumor victim, the dollar giver, the homework do-er,
Somehow, to you people, you make me to be a pushover.

Although you treat me this way,
I still love you all anyway.
But it gets annoying when I come to school with $5, and by the time the nutrition bell rings, I have none.
And it's not me whose spending those bucks, believe you me.
And you want to know the reason why that is?
It's because you know I'll give in, you know I can't resist.
You know I'm too nice, too generous.

But you people don't care, 'cause I'm just a doormat.
I'm the person you use because I'm the pushover.
I'm the one you keep walking all over.
But you people, you people couldn't care less for this doormat,
Because I'm nothing you people value at.

I'm the one who'll help you out with your issues, whatever they might be,
But then you act like I'm always gonna be right, like I'm always sure, like my endings are always happy.
But then you never show me the same kind of courtesy, kindness, or awareness,
You hardly ever treat me with the same kind of fairness.
I'm not trying to say that I want you people to stop asking me for help,
But first, then next time, try doing it yourself.
Don't always look to other people for answers, especially if it's for money or for someone to copy homework from.
'Cause chances are there aren't always gonna be people out there for you, or they could be even more done.

Now you've just witnessed this doormat put her damn foot down,
Instead of it usually being the other way around.
Now it's the end of the poem, or whatver you call that.
'Cause now you've just heard the confessions of a doormat.