There are things which,
If I tried to explain them to you,
You would reserve further false judgment that I could not explain away with words.

You seem to be resigned to looking down on me

You seem to be adamant that I haven't thought this through already

Why can't you be more open, like me? I know only so much questioning is worth doing,
But you don't see the things you are missing with me.

I am not the worst at lying, and I try to only do that when I have to.

But I am really bad at telling the truth, without seeming like I am lying, when I have been accused.

I don't even want to have to explain it to you,
Because you are already a bitter fact of human life,
And I can't change you.

And when you ask me to explain and I do, I do not approve of what you have to say anyway.

But I keep humbly quiet and ruminate your blessing for me, and I bet you don't suppose I do it.

You have dealt such great blows to my life. Some that I feel were utterly harsh and unnecessary. Your dealings with me have been cold, callous, and really rather unfortunate.

You make it so difficult, but I have learned to love it, to find myself with beautiful form in any situation

And I am trying not to look too long in disgust at myself before I find myself there.

I wonder why you don't seem to question the ultimate results of your assumptions like I do, but only in moments
Because I know life is open ended
I can imagine a world where that isn't so important to a person.

I find it nearly impossible to make a bad judgment, because at any turn I can see how I could be mistaken.

I have been such a fool, though always self-critical, but I am not the only one who has ruined my balance.

Let me go, already.