My tongue is prisoner to my teeth
Lips pursed tight enough to hold
Back words I do not mean
Blooming from hurt unaddressed

Yes, you are right
I mean this not facetiously
But could I be right too?
Is there a middle ground to breach?

Your years hold wisdom I am yet to seek
I cannot share the fruit from your labour
Though your plate overflows
And you offer from an open palm

My frustration is my own
Thank you for your interest
Though it comes delivered wrapped
In paper that cuts my fingers