The Prescription
A poem about people pleasing
POEM
I wanted to be seen
Good
Kind
Caring.
I would give anything.
Do anything.
I couldn’t bear for someone
to have the wrong idea of me.
They just needed to see.
And I just needed to learn
how to build their prescription.
The optometrist,
the frame maker,
the glass grinder,
I was it all.
If they were blind,
then surely,
I could help them see.
I observed.
I studied.
I worked.
I made a diagnosis.
Shaped the lens.
Crafted the perfect frame.
Held it up with trembling hands.
But still
they couldn’t see me.
No word of thanks.
Only correction.
Only complaints.
A dissatisfied customer.
"Your glasses hurt my eyes."
And just like that,
I felt invisible.
My effort...
unnoticed.
My love...
unappreciated.
Please,
just see me.
screamed the child in me.
Please see that I’m hurting.
That I’m in need
Back to the drawing board...
my adult-self whispered:
Was it the prescription?
The lens?
The frame?
Where did I go wrong?
What did I miss?
What can I fix?
How can I repair your eyes
so, you can finally...
finally see me?
Amy-Alyce
June 2025
