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The Realist
October 5, 2009
I am nothing more than an inferior mass
Indecisive, insignificant, inconsiderate
You can pretend your perfect, pretty words don’t sting
Not like the hundred thousand grains of sand harassing my bare skin
But then you’d be like me
Unfortunate, unaccountable, unapproachable
But never unaffected
I am not the person you want me to be
Sweet, sensible, stable
No matter how much you push
And oh how you push!
You poor, petty person
Your ill intentions are written in invisible ink
But I have my ways
Keep trying to push your agendas
I’ll remember to ignore your every word
© Doug M., Marblehead, MA
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Everywhere, man blames nature and fate, yet his fate is only the echo of his character and passions, his mistakes and his weaknesses