The Old Colossus, Anew

This isn't a personal affront, though someone's bound to take it personally. It's personal for me, and that is all, so probably not what you're interested in, not universal enough, perhaps. It's just settling with the truth, that I am what I'll always be, what I've always been, who I've lost touch with as of late. I am the rock, the constant. I am stability and strength, the support to be pulled in every direction, that holds itself up and takes the strain and the hits. I forgot that my purpose is not to exist for me, it's for the rest of you that need something to knock down, not negatively, but in place of you, I'll take the rough swells. I exist as something on which to inflict the impact of your fears and your nightmares and your problems and it all. 

I'm the statue-- give me your tired, your poor and the huddled masses yearning to be free. Send to me and on and on and I'll be here, I'll take it, that's fine. I forgot that's what I do, but I'm back, and I'm getting just as cold as the oxidized copper raised high in New York's harbor.

You haven't even the slightest idea, do you? What I value, what haunts me, what I think about myself, or you, or anything, everything; it's all something you might think you have figured out based upon what's said and what's observed. If you even care enough to think you have it figured out, that is. But you don't ask, not about the real shit anyway. And when I try to delve into the real shit, far deeper than the foam that grazes the shore, you shove me back out to sea, and I'm again alone in my own lifeboat. Back to France, belittled.

I only know what you tell me, but I ask, I prod, I try. I'll say everything... Or try to, but usually you don't care to hear it. And the worst part is, well, I want to hear your shit, what makes you satisfied or upset or just generally content, and I know you don't care to hear mine, but I try to get it out, relieve my skull from the pressure anyway. Because I'm sad. Sad-pathetic. And I'm going to explode.

And I know you're like Pandora's box, but it's me, and I just wish you would just unleash each of the "terrifying" you have kept locked away. But maybe you don't know that me, I am here for that purpose. I'll take all the shit, I always have. Yet the same façade over and over. I mean I get it, but it's just almost heartbreaking.

Like I'm telling you all this now, for what? 'Cause now I can't vent to anyone, not ever; oh loyal me, abstaining from every opportunity that will leave me feeling anything but guiltless. 'Cause I'm fucking shit. And I'll take your shit, the homeless, tempest-tossed. My lamp is raised and you, you can no longer get up to my crown, it's closed indefinitely for renovations.