No, I do not accept the grief
Or witness those boiling tears
As the ruse which you so sadly mourn
Looked beyond me for years.
A single strike may light a match
But to watch it burn to the end
Then try to light a fire with it
Then ask to be its friend
It is not in your place to dictate
Which thorn will heal or not
For it is I, plucking through the pain
To ensure they stay far off.
The only boon of the wound at hand
Is that the cherished remain in my hold
And those who hunker near and stand
Will now be valued before they’re sold.
I haven’t any care if you grieve my sobs
The frustration needn’t logical gratification
On this journey I so unwillingly set forth
The path which you’d hoped would bear rare precipitation.
Endlessly harbors typhoons and storms
O’ how necessary was this fall!
Is what I’ll shout in May,
When the brambles and thicket catch me so softly
And hold me the rest of days,
Getting on so pleasantly without you
Oh how harsh, was your delay.
I do not wish to converse with our poetry
It is others, who will hear my distractions
And I so hope you’ll neglect me still
Rather than make amends for your inaction.
I do not think I will heal
For as long as my stomach aches
I’ve a reminder of the ill that I feel
When I felt so strongly of fate.
I will not sanitize this gash and wrap it
But instead, take this gauze and stretch a canvas
And pour my blood so generously on
For healed I’ll be, when it’s all gone.
