I suppose this will be more of a rant than anything.
In order to capture the casual tone
in the form of poetry.
Or something like that?
I'm sick. ******* am I sick.
Sick of passive aggressive ******* nonsense and the
denial that comes with it.
When every sentence is meant as a slight attack,
every word laced with venom,
and you think I don't see it? Of course.
Because how could I see something you don't even see
in yourself. Impossible. Improbable, right?
That's what being above reproach is all about, isn't it?
To believe in your horse **** so whole-heartedly
that you find the justifications where ever you can,
no matter how many words and situations you have
to turn around, no matter how much you have to
deflect the subject to other trivial things until
we are doing nothing but talking in circles,
no matter how much you have to detract from the
truth to save yourself.
**** that.
I don't deal with that. I've done that **** to
people before too. I still do sometimes.
But holy ****, at least I can see it.
I can forgive it easily too...and do.
Of course I get mad about it, but there's hardly a
point in engaging that behavior. Why let that turmoil
swallow my emotions? **** no. Accept it, handle the
emotions that come with it, MOVE THE **** ON.
You can try to tear me down all you want,
but of course you know what they say about that.
It has had far too much of my attention as it is.
Even this is probably too much. But this is my outlet.
This is how I deal with things. Writing this, I'm
not even the least bit upset. I'm just letting thoughts
pour, and that's fine. The emotion behind them has
been processed without any damage to anyone.
You cannot possibly think it is healthy to use people as
emotional punching bags.
But anyway.
This is a side of me that doesn't come out. When you
know people, even casual friends, you learn their flaws,
they learn yours. It's not dishonest not to inform them.
At least, in my opinion. I believe everyone should
introspect closely enough to be in tune with their own imperfections.
As Jackson Browne put it, "Don't remind me of my
failures. I had not forgotten them."
And so it goes.
I plaster my own venom upon paper. Know that
if you read it, you have made the choice to poison yourself.

None of this takes away from my love for you, nor the
friendship we had.

It is what it is.