There are flaws in my way.
What I mean, I do not say.
And what I say, I do not mean.
It is past time that I come clean.
I have intent, and it is good,
But my word’s misunderstood.
It’s tragedy, it is a curse,
It is a lack, but it is worse.
The word descends sweet sounding slope.
It is a slope I thought was hope.
A slope I thought would bring us up.
One I thought would fill all cups.
But shifty meanings bring the pain,
And through my word I make it rain.
Yes, it rains hurtful things.
But that’s not all that it brings.
It brings doubts, it brings cost.
Like a bird whose wings are lost.
The loving birds that seemed so smart,
Full of mind and equal heart.
The wingless birds too descend.
They fall from flight they can’t intend.
So, word is sent, nonetheless.
Is there more I can confess?
Do I deceive? Is that my truth?
As an elder? Since my youth?
Why am I not what I seem?
If it can hurt, can it redeem?
Though what good is redemption,
If it’s negated by perception?
When I project and you conclude,
These pieces viciously collude.
And form a monster in your eyes.
Though what you see is a disguise.
What you’re seeing is not me.
Could that be why we disagree?
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