Thursday, July 23, 2015

Better Left Unsaid

And who made you mother of the world? girl,
you had to learn compassion at an old age
and only gave it to your children; you never thought twice
about what you can do for others, but how others can forward

your brood; as spoiled rotten as you, big attitudes,
don't act like you don't know the truth.
It feels like rolled rocks, like five years
of a bad habit, losing balance, 
scraping hands and trying to grab a rope but miss -- miss -- missing
an old friend who slammed a door in your face, like
how rare is forgiveness in the world, and how easy
when you only mean the best, to sometimes spill and tear
apart that which you tied in another's heart, yes--

but perhaps we're both naive; at once all-seeing
and blind. We cannot know ourselves as others do; how can we be
perfect, with nothing to measure up to, except our own pasts
and perceptions that arise and change; we are not
built to last

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