Part I (Unending)

I'm sorry for being such a grouch;
I don't mean to be.

But somehow feeling dispensable
Suddenly seems to be becoming strangely familiar.
It's like I'm no longer a part.
Too easily missed.
Extraneous.
An inconsequential presence in the corner above
Where the laughter, unintentionally malicious, floats up.
(Oh I know you don't mean to be)

Who am I to you?

I want to shake you and tell you
How much I try to make all of this work.
How grateful you should be that I even bother
Because it seems like no one else would.

I don't expect anything;
I don't expect you to be like what The Others have.
No -- That would be silly.
Something that both you and I would agree on (for once).

But it just passes you by, inconsequential.

Like me.

And like everything else that I do.

I just want you to
See what I've done
To know and to recognize.

And to tell me that you love me, actually.