Complaining is one thing, but nothing is good enough for you.
The moment I fix something, you point out the things I didn't do.
Too quiet, too spineless, too meek and too shy;
or too bold, too careless. Too many questions why
I'm too spoiled, too selfish, too many instances too few.
You're too proud and nothing is good enough for you.
Then I'm misplaced, only with the purest of intentions.
Leaves a bitter taste lingering when you mention (that I'm)
Trying to be everything you want me to be.
Struggling to see the good in you that no one else sees.