a Stone in mud

patience is a virtue

in braver hands than I,

like a storm made whole of eyes

‘tis a joke played by minds none too wise.

 

where does confidence linger?

He’s a Drunkard in a bar

a Jingo when other men stand to be scarred,

yet a Dove in an intimate car.

 

with words on tongue tips

and lips with nary room

but speak and closer loom.

 

and when moments pass

and Cowardice pulls rank

frustration figures, and you’d swear the room stank.

 

of what? I’d pray not tell.

 

like a Stone in mud,

overgrown with sticking moss

one kick frees Me not without loss.

 

The safety that envious green provides

stifles, and nurtures

such comforting lies.

 

yet for greater things I aspire

than dependable ruts

and so I’ll rip Myself bloody

from the mud.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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