I have a stick for measuring.
My parents used on me.
A ruler meant for gauging,
All I ought to be.
 
I hold on tight, with all my might
And close my eyes and dream.
I stretch up tall, against the wall
No hope or prayer is seen.
 
Did I reach good?  Or maybe fair?
Or someplace in-between?
Oh there's my mark, written small and dark
"Mediocre,"   I see scrawled.
 
I haven't gained an inch in deeds,
That qualify as smart.
There is no kind or patient either
No brave, no loyal
And certainly...not noble.
 
I hang my head, I sense the dread
The shame that now must follow.
I am a failure once again,
It's far too hard to swallow.
 
This ruler's such a handy thing,
With double-ended task.
One end decides my fall from grace,
The other gives a whack.
 
If I take this well: no one, I tell
Of choked back tears and sobs,
I'll fade way to better days
This pain and sorrow robs.
 
Jut out my chin, suck in my breath
It cannot best me yet.
I know it's but a piece of wood,
A haunted bit, no less.
 
I know that if, I just hold true
To what I do and say.
It won't take much , before I find
The way to win; one day.
 
I'll snap that stick; I give it up
This fruitless, maddening  trick.
 
Instead I'll chose to set my goals,
Give meaning to my life.
I'll leave the judging to my conscience,
As to what is good and right.