a friend bewailed, for the thousandth time, his hurt or
is it a resentment, towards F….
listening, I related exactly–that bitch done me wrong
she don’t like me either, and…holy shit, so what!
we’re cliquish and clannish
we’ve all got our likes and dislikes
so what if that shit don’t like us?
my only question, ponder this girlfriend, why
are you still carrying that assumed hurt around?
do you like him? No? I didn’t think so!
would you invite him home for apple fritters and coffee?
I didn’t think so!
if not, my friend, let F… go, along with all the others
life, being as short as it is, cannot be wasted on
if you must resent, make it big, sloppy, tearful
and worthy of the grand queen you are
we don’t play this game no more
some child/man trying to bolster his ego thinking
his shit don’t stink
girl, how long you been around to not know better
we’re children housing little hurts
wounds hurt when we were children
nothing we could do but be subjugated to abuse
to bullying to violence, hurt, fear and deprivation
we are no longer children
we oft play the role of hurt child
oh yes, I have a list of burning resentments,
burning a hole in my brain
the irony, the object of my embroiling drama
is totally unware of the hold he hurts over me
it is not, as Shakespeare said, a tale told by an idiot
full of sound and fury, waiting only for release
no greater joy than taking poison
hoping they’ll die