A don’t- er don’t’s, while a doer does This is all good and well when it comes To not sticking your finger in a light socket. But within the angst and Proverbial rebellion- just a drive mind you- The way to handle pain. We never learn We take it as the exorable truth- unstoppable, yet No humor can be learned, no theories Can be mused, lost suffering searching Truths must be searched out - this will loose Your touch with the base- reality- the knowns. The saddest part here is when you Teach others to cry with you, And your children may close to hate And cry with you/ or at you. It just maybe be me, but I find: Deal is Nature teaches chaos of its own, itself just fine- Causing our comforts to conflict. So if you know how to make them cry, try something harder- Teach them to care. Dedicated to all the hard relationships out there: Where I play the unfair game of woulda, coulda, shoulda. Take me away from my yesterdays, How I got here Is irrelevant. Where am I going today, more important. Can I own me better tomorrow? Poem, rhythm will end after my tomorrows are sleeping. And then I will take stock, and will not have to rock while Nursing my don’ts, because I now own all of me.
Author's Note: I was wondering if this made sense to anyone, it was a lightbulb moment for me.
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