There is something about your haughty attitude
that makes me loathe each fibre of you.
Sardonic, domineering - oh, infernal grin.
How I wish to tear you limb from limb!
Then why must I be so foolish,
Exuberant, wary, hurt by turns?
How many times has an "innocent" twinkle
deceived me to no end?
I have become my own mother,
chiding myself to
no avail.
Friday, July 8, 2011
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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.
- Emily Dickinson