After school, when we begin our home route,
My Mother asks me about my day.
“Great, except for my scolding about the dispute,
Where girls teased me today”, I want to say.

“Fine.”
The only word I allow myself to say.
The word that is my storyline,
To my worried mother whom I fight with every day.

But it’s not fine,
As she clearly doesn’t see.
And not fine, I underline
Because the person who understands me is Nobody.

Everybody says they get it,
But they are just randomly talking.
They don’t hear me one bit,
And all I hear is squawking.

Fine is the way,
I’ve resorted to using,
My strategy of delay,
To keep you from accusing.

Of course, I’m not fine.
Are you blind?
All of the mean comments have begun to entwine,
And you have no presence of mind.

When I told you my problem,
You told me you didn’t have time,
And when my problem came to condemn,
You decided it was too far to climb.

So fine is what you’ll get,
Until you have a clue,
But for now, you forget.
So my statement will be untrue.

I’m fine.