Here’s a flaw 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.
My words descend sweet sounding slopes.
Slopes to me that seemed like hope.
Slopes I thought would bring us up.
The kind that could soon fill all cups.
But shifty meanings bring the pain,
And by my words I make it rain.
Yes, it rains hurtful things.
But that’s not all that it brings.
It brings doubts, it brings cost.
In all the precious time we’ve lost.
My words are sent, nonetheless.
Is there more I can confess?
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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