Hard words hit
The psyche, shaping it
Into something it
Wasn’t intended to be,
A bleak, unforgiving place
Where cruelty is normal,
Kindness ridiculed,
Each harsh moment of existence
Another void to fill
With something else grim,
Further suffocating.
It try the same
Thing one more time,
As if it’s going to
Make a difference,
It never seems to but
There is always hope.
Sadly, one cannot
Yearn one’s way into
Another’s heart,
Only skulk around
The margins hoping
Something will change,
Reading great promise
Into irrelevant events,
The object of one’s
Ardor unaware.
Fabricating an elaborate
Fiction about how the
Very people they’re
Mistreating are somehow
The oppressors, a weak
Justification for their own
Reprehensible actions,
Constantly compensating,
Contriving comfort by
Projecting their own
Offenses on the objects of
Their despotism while
Claiming victimhood.
It arrives and elicits
Questions not easily
Resolved, a perplexing
Serving of doubt mixed
With tentative hope,
A wish answered,
Respite from hardship,
Please let it be,
As of this moment
It isn’t and
Most likely
Will never be.
Everything this day
Seems to be of outsized
Importance, immense
Consequence, no filter
In place, just raw,
Unadulterated displeasure.
Foreboding,
Sense of uncertainty,
Perceptible shift,
Condition worsening,
Memories of a time
When it wasn’t like this,
Taken for granted,
Unappreciated,
Now mourned.
They come together
Not because of chance
But certainly due to habit,
A familiarity born from
Repetition, recurrence,
Distrust for deviation,
Simple, predictable
Results emanating from
Hurt and fear.
The tree’s branches
Have grown into another yard,
One where such things
Are not welcome and can only
Be dealt with in one way.
Plants must conform to
Strict standards of
Manageability,
Unobtrusiveness,
Acceptable stature.
Though the tree might be
A welcome spot of greenery
In another setting,
Spirited growth has no place here.
