I could care less
for the flight of the jungle fowl,
tethered by my hopelessness
having slunk down a pond in the forest,
Where i sit
uninevented into what i had dreamed,
a man not myself,
The wind drives the trees
and not my sorrow instead,
There is a rhyme in the words not spoken
there is always a rhyme in the words not spoken,
and they are digging a hole for me
for the flight of the jungle fowl,
tethered by my hopelessness
having slunk down a pond in the forest,
Where i sit
uninevented into what i had dreamed,
a man not myself,
The wind drives the trees
and not my sorrow instead,
There is a rhyme in the words not spoken
there is always a rhyme in the words not spoken,
and they are digging a hole for me
I wear my bracelet engraved with the words, "Be Brave and Do Hard Things." Hard thing to speak, to speak words that drive the spike of pain, to speak words that are embarrassingly true. Why hide what is true? I ask myself and have no answer, so I strive not to anymore. It is what it is. I have changed, I will change. I will speak of the change in observation more than judgement. At least I hope I will. I'm tired of the hole. Damn tired.
ReplyDeleteAnnie,
ReplyDeleteExactly..There is a man who looks at his face in the pond and grimaces and then goes back to being what he has been all along...and there is the one who would have rather spat at what he saw...we have to be the latter...