Poem Collection: 07/05

I focused, splitting hairs.
On history, through years
Of stories, colors, hues,
Great differences in views.

I was no warrior this time.
I was not strong, not fair, nor kind.
Drowned eagerly in graying mud,
Neglecting my own flesh and blood.

And stabbed.. Because I hurt so much.
How classy, I, and with what crutch!
A sword?
A knife?
Her bleeding heart!
Already hurting from the dart
Of years past...
Of years gone.

And I still fought...
Not moving on.

I was no warrior this time.
I was a shame, a fraud, a fake.
Now worth pretending I'm awake.

For I am not
If I could be,
So cold So eagerly.

But its alright,
My fur is down.
My tail is thinned.
Rests on the ground.
I do not growl.
Nor kick, nor stomp.
Accepting prenance
For my pomp.

And I agree that I was not
A warrior this time.

So splitting hairs is not the way.
I am not here to find out why.
I am not here to point the blame
Or make her feel some Christian shame

I'm not a judge, nor am I right.
I am a warrior who need not fight.