I turn my head,
But you did it first.
Then I twirl on my feet,
You're already reversed.

It doesn't seem fair!
Why am I just a mirror,
Trekking the traversed?

I shake my head,
It can't be your aim,
And take up my pen,
But the words are proclaimed.

You're always there!
Why are you the author,
And I'm just the words?

I slam my hand against the desk,
But the wood's already worn.
And then I rise and stomp my foot,
To meet a dented floor.

You always forebear!
Why can't I just be myself,
Instead of one of your old, shattered shelves?

I kick my table through the wall,
But it's already reached the other hall.
Then I turn and grip my pen,
Only to find it in my hand.

I'm done being last!
Why can't I ever be first,
Instead of some worn-out rehearse?

I stare down with contempt,
At the messenger's tool.
Pressed against my knee,
And I snap it.

I snap it.

For all to see.