You have been cut.


You feel as though you’ve had enough.
No shred of oomph
to think of triumph
and go on,
like one of scruff,
to do the things
you know
could make it better. . .

So instead, where
it has its natural way
itself to heal,
you’d rather stop
and just be stuck,
so as
not to have
to tackle stuff
that’s new to you
(that might be tough).

that way
it sits and chafes
and maybe blisters,
maybe oozes,
maybe festers. . .

‘Tis that way everybody loses,
you, the ones or things
that moved to hurt you,
and the whole wide world together. . .

‘Cuz all that stuff
you came to do
gets lost
as if ’twere turned
to dust,

Just like
might in a war
a stray love letter.

Who’s there to help?
Well, there’s plenty folks
and books upon
yours or somebody’s shelf.

But ’tis you must lead
the cunning, mighty team
to free yourself,

to live and work and play
and be
your dream,

for though your legion imperfections
loom like wolves with teeth that gleam,

come jaw to jaw,
and claw to claw,
none in the world that any ever saw
better than you
to be the one
to be,
by day or night,
in peace or conflict,
day or night,
your own best bester.

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