Poems for the Sad and Weary

Dirty Laundry

Poems are piling up in a corner

Because somewhere along the way,

I lost my patience, my tolerance

And resentment builds, day by day.

But I'd rather the poems collect dust,

Pages yellowing under the dim lights

And words fading from cheap ink

As they remain unread. The plights

Of my impatient heart are better stifled

Than put out for the world to cross-examine

Because I think I was brought up with more class

Than to air my dirty laundry. I try not to step on mines

Left behind by my own displeasures and petty

Emotions because ticking time bombs

Do not wait for you to grow mature before they explode

With glee and they shatter everything you call home.

So I write feverishly still, peppering my angst

With less-than-shiny metaphors and half-meant similes

And I amuse myself by attempting wit

And drawing circles around squares prettily.

But I would rather these words kept unsaid

Because I like to think that I possess some restrain

In reducing the harm I can inflict on other people.

I rather not drop hints I cannot explain

Because I did the mind game situation before

And I'm weary enough to ignore codes and signs,

Tired enough to tell myself that the most I can do

Is try to be a better person, one that is fine

With the world being less pleasant than I expected

Because being human means making mistakes.

And I never want to live on ideals and fairytales

Because I will never have (ideally) what it takes.