Most Vulnerable Pessimist Poem by emmanuelle sanders

In my life there's something imperfect,
And that would be the reason I'd reflect.
Why, is it a someone, or something?
No, but it's wrecking my well-being.

Yes, it's a sickness, I must say.
But it isn't the cause of my dismay.
Actually, it's the consequence of the disease
That wouldn't put my mind at ease.

What makes me sad is the way I'm treated
By the people around me, and those that I've trusted.
I've been a laughing stock of the strangers there,
My condition they cannot bear.

Some people, which I can call friends,
Just frowned as if it's already the end.
Now they think it's a dumb alibi,
So when they see me faint, they just sigh.

Some elders, who are supposed to care,
Don't understand it; they think it's unfair.
They take for granted the task they received,
So they have grudges against me; I they have deceived.

I shouldn't bother, you might say,
If these things happen everyday.
But, hello, it's a heart condition;
Is having it my own decision?

Honestly speaking, I get irritated
By every mock, alibi, and things they've said.
It's okay to be the most vulnerable pessimist here;
I just don't wanna be an object of fear.