It’s the little bumps

When you are closer than ever to joy

That hurt the most.

When you can actually see your dream on the horizon-

And then the pall is thrown over.

Amplifying doubt;

The taunting voice of the second grade bully:

Telling you that you are ugly and

No one would ever want you.

Stupid for believing

That you might get what you want.

First love telling you

The truth about the weekend away.

A mother’s gentle voice

Suggesting that  you

Forget  your dreams,

And submit to the present reality.

New love telling you

Just this last time…


Posted on September 17, 2013, in Poetry, thoughts. Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

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