Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


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Many years ago,

my friends would gather round, and we’d do dumb things.

Oh, but I was the dumbest, and the meanest, by far.

I used to call this one guy I found in the phone book.

He had the misfortune of having a name that stuck out, and for living in a part of town that was considered bad.

I’d call him, and make fun of him for his name, and for where he lived, and for the color of his skin.

And, somehow, i thought it made me feel better to make him feel worse.

But, it didn’t make me feel better to make him feel worse.

It just made him feel worse.

And, now, with older eyes, and less dumb days, I’m reminded from time to time of who I was.

It is uncomfortable to hold that person up to the light, and if there is ever a regret in my life, it certainly resides in the immutable past that pushes me toward the hope that the bully of a boy doesn’t reside in the heart of the man that now exists.

Reflecting on that person, I pity that heart, and how scared he was, and how misguided his thinking was.

But, that is a life.

My mistakes are my fingerprints, and my DNA.

Hoping the mutation takes,

And replications endure.

Tomfoolery, for tomfoolery’s sake comes at a cost.

One I’m not willing to pay anymore.

Not anymore.

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