Good For Nothing

Filled out applications,
wrote down recommendations,
got an education,
filled with anticipation,
focusing on being patient,
surrounding myself with motivation,
and still good for nothing,
good for nothing more.

Pulled myself together,
managed to sober up and get better,
healed my heart and hardened
my skin
and re-grew a healthy garden
for my mind to flourish in,
and still good for nothing,
good for nothing more.

Ripped old pictures and threw out old clothes,
burned rickety bridges with bad Joes,
distanced myself
from toxic friends and conniving foes
by putting them up on a shelf
where they'd be forgiven, but always known,
and still good for nothing,
good for nothing more.

Stepped back
and cleaned up my act,
from my filthy mouth to others' backs;
took the knives out and apologized,
admitted fault and accepted being ostracized
for all I've ever done,
and still good for nothing,
good for nothing more.

Took verbal backlash from those I love
and got beaten down "just because",
realized where their loyalty is
and isn't,
tried to talk
and tried even harder to listen,
and still good for nothing,
good for nothing more.

Good for nothing more than what?
Good for nothing more
than a w**** -
unexpected
and unaccepted -
it's a hard word to swallow
and even harder to be -
spit the word in the mirror
and maybe, just maybe,
you'll know what it is to be me -
skill-less
and spineless,
built on kindness
and pretending to be mindless,
but pretty.
Dirty like a big city,
but at night -
as dazzling as those sparkling lights -
and forgive me
if this dose of reality
is too much,
but it's the crutch
I'm leanin' on
and counting on.

A thug could explain how hard it is to leave the game
and I'm in it too - in a corporation leading another name -
a puppeteering circus act that I entered in at thirteen,
unknowingly
and foolishly
for someone I thought cared for me
and now it's all I know how to do
and it earns me disgusted looks from folks just like you.

No one respects me,
not even the bottom-feeders who f*** me,
but the money's
better than flippin' burgers at Mickey D's,
so please don't judge me
'til you can confidently say earning hundreds of dollars is easy
and it's all because of the simple pleasuring and pleasing
and being told things like "you complete me"
by outcasts too clumsy
for anything more
than a sleazy w****
like me.

And you know what?
I'd gladly take that job at Burger King
or Wendy's,
but I guess they don't want me
'cause I submitted and called, but they never called me
back, so look at that;
I'm not even good enough for a cashier's cash.
Psh! And people still bother to ask
stupid questions like "Why even consider falling back
into a relapse?"

I'm feeling ugly and beautiful all at the same time,
alternating between being cuddled and manhandled by the flip of a dime,
but I bet you've not a clue what that's like
'cause you've never taken up the chore
and therefore,
never tossed and turned the next night,
struggling
with the mind-boggling
question, "What the hell am I good for?"