Poetry: Returning a Dirty Windshield

You put me in a box because I stuck you in the drawer,
Your only sure fate left is the one walking out the door,
You laughed at my pleads, the ones I made to God,
You roared with the sound of assurance,
at my faulty faith in your facade.

There never was a hope, nor a light,
Not a single sign to foretell of a joy,
That might exist between you and me.
Still, I look for the invisible door,
Of which I don’t even have the key.

They all say I’ve changed them, and mostly for the better,
And I always wonder, where is my souvenir?
Where is my memento from the pain I endured?
Where is my crown, the one that is endeared?

Well I’m not going to stand for it anymore,
I’m not a punching bag; that’s not what this was for.
You were given a handout in self-betterment,
and I was handed to the devils for an unfair judgment.

The clarity of purpose should come with clear vision,
All of your excuses demand a subtext description,
But maybe I’m missing something, a better reason for our division,
Is there a scratch on my lens? Should I get a new prescription?

Do I need to sum this up, or give a good conclusion?
You know, even the best of you, only deserves confusion.

And after deciding against castration,
Thought to repay you for my frustration,
What can I give that’s not too subtle,
But not inducing any grand rebuttals?

So rather than present a gift,
Your possessions, I return to you,
Giving back your dirty, old windshield,
the recycling of an unclear view.


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