my pettiness

perhaps writing this is a mistake.
perhaps all will come to naught.
showing all my little insecurities,
doubts, fears.
perhaps someone will be the johnny cash to my trent resznor,
and take my words, turn my Hurt, these whiney wimperings
into true art, beauty, pain, sadness
thinking the world is crubmling because someone took my lollipop
so yes my traumas are traumas to me
but look at what you’ve endured
i don’t know the first thing about suffering.  i read
blogs of those who cannot rise from a bed,  who have suffereed abuse, horrors
and live the nightmare over and over, yet still they light the candle
and hold out hope.  christ.
yet here i sit
wallowing in grief
clinging to a misery
of my own manufacture
gripping tight these stabby thorns
cuz it’s all i’ve ever know
these thorns are small
i’ve got four limbs, and can walk
i’m only burdened by a thing that doestn exist,
the past
a myth
i’ve packed my mistakes in baggages
almost forgotten until bumped
they squak like borat’s hen
i bring this around with me, this stuff
this refuse
for i have so far refused
to learn the lessons that they hold
and though i’m in a nice garden
along a pleasant path, my hands
brushing flowers on either side
and i can conjure up a rose bush, deep red bloody blooms
beautiful, fragrant, thorny
i come to the wall, so wide so tall
and attempt to leap, step back run jump
fail
again,
fail
again,
fail
this is not the way to get through this

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