The Pains of Cleaning Floors

To others, you feel you must speak,
About what makes your anger peak.
Here I sit...
Here I pray,
That'll you'll talk to me another day.
So, here I am with my sewing kit,
Ready for your heart to fix,
But I end up on the floor-
Counting to one-billion six,
To discover your pain is no more.
I wonder why I am here, what I do-
When I am of no use to you.
In my bed, here I lie
And to sleep, I may cry.
Maybe someday, my detailed plan
Of the future I wish I had
Will leave me so I won't be sad.
Maybe I should throw them in the can,
Take out the trash, scrub the floor-
Maybe it will make my pain no more.
Pain, that I wished to take,
Pain, that was all yours,
I made a pain's cover- totally fake.
But now, all I do is clean floors.
Cook and clean, doing all my chores...
I am nothing and no more-
I wish I had realized before…