Behind a Painted Face
These inconsistencies don't sit right with me. Another idea on the nature of my being, straying far from the truth. Reserved and mistakingly impertinent. Not a dog, rather a rabid mutt, or so they say. A brand new day, but the same old nonsense. Thinking without common sense. Spitting on my shadow and tossing daggers into my back. When I turn my head, I don't see jack. An abominator Johnny-on-thespot, when I defend my perception. Spewing out corrections quicker than fast and reminiscing on nothing but my past. Halting my future, acting on my behalf. When I go to throw a punch, I see nothing but dust. Sprinting instead of running, I smell perpetrators in abundance. So I ask myself, to whom do I address my retaliation?
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Spell my Grief on paper with pen instead of paint on canvas.