Call Me a Basketcase

According to society's ideals
I have a problem.
Should I be sorry I don't fit the mold?
Should I go seek help in the ways society suggests?
Or stick with self medication?
For hours I lay here.
Pondering the questions swarming.
Those eyes bore into my soul,
Cold and judgmental.
I reach out for the compassionate hand,
A friend to listen.
Few truly understand,
And here what I have to say.
When your heart lays broken
Why is it not OK to cry?
It's easy for the onlooker to urge you on,
But only until they experience it themselves
They never understand.
I act irrationally, even irresponsibly sometimes.
Impulsive, rude.
I am flawed.
But is it my own fault?
Or a result of the actions of others in my life?
Instead of judging so harshly,
Why not offer a shoulder to cry on?
Instead of lecturing,
why not listen?
If showing emotion is a sign of weakness,
Let me be weak.
I would rather know myself,
Than mold myself into the puppet society breeds.
Sit up,
Back straight,
Pinky out...