I seem to be hitting a prolific stretch of poetic highway. Not smooth driving, I confess. Maybe a few pot holes, now and then the concrete turns to a muddy trail barely passible . . . but I manage to make it down the road no matter the terrain. I wrote this in a huff over something someone said. Who that person was, what the actual relationship I had with this person . . . I don't remember.
Dog
Freedom
We
make mistakes.
Hopefully
we learn from them.
Sometimes
we keep repeating ourselves,
the
same response to an action.
Others
find fault in our limited ability to "get it right."
They’ve
even less respect for us if we do change.
Ignore
the ignorant bastards, this flip-flop generation:
"Thou
shalt not change. And even if you do,
we’ll
still treat you like dog."
I'm
tired of being dog.
Scratching
at a gang of flees
who I can never, ever please.
I
break the leash they strapped on me.
I
run free, free through these wilting words.
You’ll
never catch me again.
Woodie
o5-o9-16
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